Life Harsh

by Soulburnt

After the battle against the Senior Partners, Angel and Spike unwittingly fall into company with an actual angel. This is a prequel to 'Life Hard.'

5. Everyday Life

Everyday Life

⸹

North Carolina

June 2004

⸹

"Aargh," Sally growled, fairly dancing with impatience. "Aren't you two ready yet?" She was trying to hurry them outside to watch a meteor shower. "The Bootids won't wait."

"Go on," Angel urged her. "We'll be right there." He tossed Spike an amused look as she left the kitchen, turning off the light as she went.

Spike picked up a bowl of popcorn still warm from the microwave and waved Angel ahead of him. Angel was carrying several bottles of beer in his hands, and he held open the door with his back for the other man. "We're here," Spike said with exaggerated patience as they joined Sally in the yard. The night was moonless, the yard lit only by fireflies, and there was no glow of civilization on the horizon to mar the darkness. Sally had set out three lounge chairs, and she was already sprawled in the one in the middle, her arms behind her head.

Spike chose the chair to her right and straddled it. "Open wide," he said, and tossed a piece of popcorn into her mouth. She was the only vampire he'd met whose appetite for human food came remotely close to his own. He bit back on the three suggestive remarks that came to mind; they had been very polite to each other since the incident in the apple orchard.

Angel took the remaining lounge chair and shared the beer around. He leaned back and took a swig, then propped the bottle against his crotch. "Hey!" he cried, pointing above them and to the right, getting the honor of spotting the first shooting star. It was a good meteor shower, with enough spectacular ones to keep the watching from becoming tedious.

"Oi!" Spike cried in annoyance half an hour later, swatting his forearm. "I'm the bloodsucker here, you little git." He flicked the dead mosquito away.

"The bane of the South," Sally murmured.

"It's your fault. You feed us too well," Angel complained. "No wonder the mosquitoes confuse us with the living." Sally had been as good as her word with the fussing and catering, but the reason they stayed was that they were safe, an unfamiliar feeling for them both. Here in rural America, they remained concealed from Wolfram and Hart's agents. Neither Rupert Giles nor Charles Gunn had given them reason to leave their hiding place, and as time went on, they became less inclined to go. After an inauspicious beginning, their hostess kept them safe from each other. They were watching a meteor shower together, and it felt entirely normal.

Sally made their safe haven comfortable as well. New clothes, mostly in shades of black, showed up in their dressers, unannounced and freshly laundered. After a rather heated discussion of literature, a large box arrived, uncommented on, filled with eighteenth century works in the original romance languages and volumes of nineteenth century poetry. Their hostess made onion blossoms for Spike fresh from her own garden; Angel's weakness for ice cream led to a freezer stocked with several flavors of Ben & Jerry's.

Although their bodies had rounded from the plentiful blood supplied to HemiGlobal Research, Angel wasn't sure he'd been in such good shape since living in Sunnydale. An unused machine shed had been cleared for his Tai Chi and reequipped with punching bags suspended at varying heights, and Sally always had work for them around the farm. The three of them had put new tin roofs on the barn and all the outbuildings, which glowed like silver under moonlight. She taught them how to run barbed wire and erect split rail fencing. When she'd learned that Spike knew how to weld, she had him repair the radiator on her tractor. Angel could even recognize most of the goats by name.

He didn't resent doing an occasional good night's work, because it didn't seem like a burden. A more typical night involved the three of them sitting around the kitchen table, Angel and Spike vying to tell the best story. Without humans around, they returned to their nocturnal ways. Many nights were spent away from the farm for one reason or another: to get Sally's mail from the post office, to shop, or just for fun. Their hostess introduced them to the lazy pleasures of fishing a moonlit lake and watching drive-in movies. The second heartiest laugh Angel had that summer was when they were watching a horror movie and Sally looked over to find Spike lunging at her in full vampire face. She'd screamed.

Sally might be an odd mix of vampire and human, but she helped them forget they were. Her smooth Southern manner set the tone for their own interactions, and the fight they had their first week on the farm had not been repeated. The two men found or rediscovered ways to talk to each other, despite the weight of their history. Spike listened to Angel's stories of a hundred years of lonely misery; Angel heard Spike's messier transition to ensoulment in the blond man's tales. It became easier to overlook the many things they disliked about each other. They were living as unapologetic vampires, too, and not being around humans helped.

The popcorn was long gone and the bowl full of empty beer bottles before Sally sighed and sat up. "I should go weed the runner beans." There was no enthusiasm in her voice.

"Let it go," Spike said cheerfully. "The weeds will be bigger tomorrow and easier to see." Raising an eyebrow, Sally nodded and settled back against the cushions.

"Terrifying," Angel said. "Spike's actually making sense." Just because they were getting on didn't mean he had to pass up an easy opening. "Nice one," he said after a few minutes of silence, tracking a meteor across the sky. Then he hid a grin and added slyly, "Reminds me of when we played tennis a few days ago, you know, a small, round shape hurtling through the air so fast it catches fire. We should do that ag–"

"No." Sally's voice was implacable, as was the narrow look she gave him. None of them had played before (Spike had, but not since he was human), so when she suggested trying tennis, no one knew that it would turn into a not-so-veiled grudge match between the two men, devolving into ten- and twelve-foot runs up the fence enclosing the court, lethally fast projectiles, a shattered bank of overhead lights, and the splintering of two expensive rackets which, fortunately, had not been made of wood. The next day, Sally brought home several Frisbees, which kept the men as much as a half a mile away from each other.

"I enjoyed tennis," Angel said, shrugging innocently.

"Yeah, got to keep those racquetball moves intact for the next time you play Satan," Spike said sarcastically.

"He wasn't Sa –" His defense trailed off, as Izzy had certainly been steeped in evil. He tried another angle. "You shouldn't judge someone by how they look, Spike," Angel protested, shifting in the lounge chair. "Profiling is wrong."

"I always wanted to be an astronaut," Sally said after another long while of gazing up into the night. "I still do, want to go past the atmosphere and see things like this in the vacuum of space, where they're just rocks floating along." Looking upward instead of at each other, confidences were easy to share. "If I knew anyone at NASA, I swear I would already have gone to them. I mean, who better to be an astronaut than a vampire? We don't need air except to speak, and we don't have to be kept very warm, either. Above zero Kelvin, sure, but think of the energy they could save. Just slap a few of those necrotempered windows on the space station, and you've got a long-term crew."

"You don't want to get involved with the government, pet." Spike's voice was slow and quiet in the warm night. "They already know about demons, and they aren't fans."

Sally glanced over at him. "They know about us?"

"I can't say for certain that NASA does, but there's a, uh, paramilitary section of the government that's extremely interested in vampires and demons, including yours truly. They managed to capture me and stuck an experimental chip in my brain that zapped me every time I tried to feed or defend myself, like a cattle prod in my head." He ignored the eyebrow Angel raised at this bland description of his behavior.

This got her to look all the way over at him. "They put a torture device in your head?"

He shrugged. "Yeah."

"When?"

"A few years ago, in bloody Sunnydale, of course."

"The United States government put a torture device in your brain?" she repeated, just to be sure.

"Yeah." He stared up at the sky. "It malfunctioned after I got my soul and nearly killed me."

"You don't want to go to the feds," Angel concurred. "They, uh, drafted me in World War II and sent me on a one-way mission down to a crippled Nazi submarine." Spike gave a soft snort of amusement, but didn't add anything.

"Crud." Sally let the word die away. "So much for working for NASA." After a moment, she went on. "They broke their word, anyway. You know, not all the science fiction things they promised have happened. Like vacationing on Mars, going to work on the moon, zipping around in flying cars, things like that. I mean, here we are past the millennium, and there aren't even decent robots yet." Spike choked a bit on a swallow of beer.

"No air cars, but we do have cell phones," Angel pointed out.

"And online shopping," Spike offered in a strangled voice.

"Okay," Sally agreed grudgingly. "There is that."

Angel broke the ensuing silence. "I wouldn't want to go into space. It just seems… cold."

"Not for me, mate," Spike agreed. "Too far away from my natural feeding grounds."

"I don't know," Sally mused. "Think about looking back down at the planet, seeing the whole roundness of it, all spread out lovely and blue, shimmering like a sapphire against the black of space. It's a way of touching God, I guess."

"That's too far for me to go looking for God," Angel said.

"Well, you can see him here and there on earth," Sally said amiably. Angel shifted, and the silence took on a different quality. She sat up a bit straighter and looked at him. "You don't believe in God?" she asked, incredulous.

He shrugged. "I haven't seen any proof."

She gave him another look. "Angel... no proof?" He studied his hands, and Sally shook her head. "Oh, I know you're thinking Bible Belt and red states and all that garbage. I'm not speaking as a naïve former Baptist; this is something I've decided after a lot of thought. I don't have the vocabulary to describe or encompass a supreme creator with anything other than my pale concept of God, so, sorry if I sound religious.". She leaned back against the lounge chair once again, looking up. "I've read the holy texts, but I have to go with Einstein on the existence of God: how else can you have all of that emptiness up there and a world teeming with life down here?

"But the thing that really makes me believe in God is the demon that dwells in here," she continued, touching her chest. "I mean, if something this evil exists on our planet, something good must care enough to keep it in check. Demons wouldn't allow things as heartbreakingly silly as giraffes to get a chance to evolve. Ergo, God exists – and he has a sense of humor."

"'Splains Angel's hair, then."

Angel ignored the blond man and chose his words carefully. "I don't want to offend you, Sally. You see the best in people, still see the beauty of the world. But you've not seen the things I've seen. There is such crushing darkness out there, such evil…" his voice trailed away. "I've met powerful beings who call themselves gods, and they are inevitably evil or, at best, amoral. I've spoken with the Powers That Be, and they don't care about us. When good happens on this earth, it's usually because a human cares beyond measure and sacrifices everything for the greater good. It isn't because angels are looking out for us, or that there's a grand plan." He looked over at her, almost apologetically. "I've seen miracles, Sally, but I don't feel loved or watched over. Maybe your God did exist, once… but not anymore."

She nodded, but seemed glad to have her turn in the conversation. "The fact that humans will sacrifice themselves at all to me is… The fact that you two are still here… never mind." She seemed to make a sudden decision to abandon the argument. "We don't agree, and that's okay. My standard for 'proof' is a lot lower than yours. Or different, maybe." She turned her head and looked at Spike. "What about you, honey? You've been awfully quiet."

He drained his beer and sat up, not looking at either of them. "You don't want to know what I think."

Sally sat up, too. "Of course I do."

"Right, then." He sighed. "I agree that we don't have the vocabulary to define God, so I'll stick with what I've seen personally, and that is that anything that calls itself a god should be destroyed before it can destroy. That's all they're capable of doing." Spike stared at the bottle in his hands and sighed. "Maybe there's a force for good out there… but not for me. Know someone who went to heaven, someone deserving." He stopped for a moment and folded his arms over his chest, almost hugging himself. "Know that after I sacrificed myself to save the world, surrendered my soul and my being with the full knowledge–" He looked up, his features fey in the cold starlight. "Didn't matter. No heaven for me. No forgiving God like the C of E is sellin.' If there is a Creator, it doesn't have any use for me. I'm a destroyer, a demon. If my… essence hadn't been kept in this dimension, I would be in hell."

"Spike," Angel said, his voice unusually gentle. "That was Pavayne."

"Was it?" He stood up. "There's no reward for the likes of us. No one up there cares. We can't get there by our actions, and there is no mercy." He half-turned his head toward Angel. "Sorry, mate." Spike dropped the empty bottle on top of the others and strode back to the house.

Sally stared after him, then twisted around to look at Angel. He met her horrorstruck gaze levelly, not denying the truth in what Spike had said. She gestured toward the house, but the dark-haired man just shook his head. She muttered something so foul that Angel was taken by surprise, then went after the other vampire herself.

"Spike?" Sally found him sitting in darkness on the living room couch. He turned his head away. She sat down next to him and regarded his profile for a minute. He wasn't going to turn to her, she realized, so she sat up on her knees next to him. Hesitantly, Sally slid one arm around his shoulders and put her cool hand on his cheek. He resisted, but she forced his head closer until she held him against her chest. They sat that way a long time. Spike gradually relaxed, accepting her comfort. Finally, he lifted his hand and covered hers, pulling it to his mouth. He kissed it, then twined his fingers with hers, thinking of Tara, for some reason.

Sally returned the gesture with a kiss on the top of his head, then sat back on her heels, putting a little distance between them. He could feel her eyes on him, but he couldn't bring himself to look at her. "Good thing I'll live forever, huh?" he asked, his voice raw. It was the most he could say about it; telling Fred had been hard enough. Nothing in his life or unlife had hurt as bad as being exiled to hell after choosing to be one of the good guys. Not even Buffy could wound him so deeply.

She didn't answer, but squeezed his fingers. They sat in silence for another few minutes, then Sally let go of his hand, unfolded her legs from beneath her, and pulled him toward her. Spike let himself settle back against her lap, felt her arms fold around him protectively. He stretched his legs out along the couch, getting comfortable, and felt another kiss on his brow.

"Someone down here cares." Sally's words were soft but adamant and did not require a reply.

The corner of his mouth lifted. She couldn't see it, he knew, but it didn't matter. He closed his eyes.

⸹

Sally shut the living room door cautiously and turned toward the kitchen. She had held Spike while he slept for more than an hour and found to her surprise that she was hungry. She grabbed a jar from the refrigerator and didn't bother warming it. The temperature hadn't dropped much this summer night, anyway.

Angel was still lying on the lounge chair, looking up. He sat up as he heard her approach, patting the space where his legs had been. Sally dropped down next to him, opened the jar, and took a long drink. She held it out to him, and he took it, drank, grimaced, then passed it back.

"How is he?"

"Asleep." She took another, smaller drink. "He's on the couch, so don't go sit on him or anything."

"Did you talk?"

Sally made a cynical sound. "What could I say? I'm such a… I'm an idiot, Angel, talking about things that you guys have actually lived."

"You're not an idiot, Sally," he said in a patient voice, reaching for the blood. "You didn't know."

"I would never have brought any of that up if I had a clue," she said, shaking her head in disgust. "And I do know better – three rules of polite conversation: never talk about death, money, or religion."

"I've been to hell," Angel said bluntly. He ignored Sally's shocked exclamation. "When I lost my soul in Sunnydale, I used my blood to open a portal to a hell dimension. Buffy had to kill me to close it, and I went into hell." He lifted the jar. "To this day, I'm not sure why I was sent back. We think the First, the original evil, brought me back as part of a plot to destroy the Slayer, but that didn't happen, obviously. I never want to go back." He drank and handed the jar to her.

"I've been tortured before and since, but a lot of what I choose to do is in the hope that I'll never be stuck in a hell dimension again. It's that bad. I used to believe that if I lived as a champion, atoned for the evil I did as Angelus, there was going to be something better than that in store for me. Now… I don't expect to win, but at least I'll have done some good."

"So you have hope?" Sally asked. She felt him shrug.

"I don't know if I would call it hope. My plan was that, by the time I have to leave this body, I'd have won so many for the good guys that the Powers That Be wouldn't have any choice but to… well, maybe not reward me, but send me somewhere else."

She smiled. "Would you be offended if I say that seems like a very Irish attitude?"

"Not if a red-haired lass is saying it," Angel said with the old lilt, shrugging again.

She smiled up at him and slid her arm around his waist, giving him a quick squeeze. Angel smiled, too, but it faded as he looked into her upturned face. She was pretty, kind, and undemanding. She was a vampire, strong so that he wouldn't have to hold back. And she had a nice ass. Nina was far, far away. He lowered his mouth toward hers.

Sally's lips parted, and then she pressed them together and looked down, wrapping both hands around the jar. Angel looked up at the sky and forced a long stream of air out through his nostrils. So much for getting his hands on that ass, and wasn't that an Angelus thing to think? He saw another meteor shoot overhead and thought for a moment that he should be feeling guilty because of Nina. He didn't, though.

"Angel, I like you very much," Sally began.

"But?" he interrupted.

"But the first time I ever saw you smile was when you saw Buffy at Mr. Giles' house. I saw the way you two look at each other, and I'd sooner gnaw my arm off than come between that, even for a minute." After their talk about typical vampire behavior, Sally had expected this. She looked up at him again, taking herself out of the equation. "I know that kind of love. It's the real thing."

After a moment, a cynical smile twisted Angel's lips. "It is real, and I left her behind so she could find a normal man, feel the same way about someone who can give her a normal life. You know there's no way Buffy and I can end up together." He had a random mental image of a sheet of cookies baking in an oven.

"No, I don't know that," Sally said, her tone sharp. "Look, I've never spoken to gods, I've never been to hell, but if there's one area where I am qualified to speak, it's about love. I loved Henry for over sixty years, for longer than I've been a vampire, long after those moments of 'true happiness.' Just because you aren't together right now, just because it isn't easy, doesn't mean it's not love, Angel. True love has a way of working things out. Death is nothing to true love; I'm a standard of proof good enough even for you."

He smiled faintly at that. "What I can't give to her is a lot more than what I can." Angel leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

She shrugged. "You aren't giving her anything, Angel, and I think you'll regret it. She's not like us; she won't be here indefinitely. The unsolicited advice of the day is, while she's here, give her what you can."

"Pain, heartache, heartburn, gray hairs…."

"Love. Do you think any of us ever get enough of that?" Sally shrugged again. "I have a good feeling about you two."

He studied her face in the dim light. "Love can be a terrible thing," he began.

Sally cut him off. "Unequal love, grudgingly given love, immature and jealous love, yes, I agree with you. But true love is never a terrible thing." She stood up and offered him the jar of blood. Angel shook his head. "Just like you think I have a lot to learn about the powers that govern… existence, but are too nice to say so, I think you have a lot to learn about the power of the heart."

Angel watched her walk to the back door. "My heart doesn't work," he said in a quiet voice, an image of a dried-up walnut now in his mind.

"I heard that," Sally called over her shoulder. He grinned despite himself.

⸹

Hours later, Spike lifted the blanket as he woke on the couch, wondering when Sally had covered him. It was around noon, he estimated, and the house was quiet except for an infrequent hissing growl from Sally's room. He stood up, feeling like his bones were made of lead, and stumbled toward his bedroom.

He paused outside Sally's door and placed his hand on the wood, the blanket slipping from one shoulder. The key that he had kept in his pocket while they traveled now hung on a hook above the door. Something inside him had eased while he rested in her embrace, had taken comfort from contact with another of his kind. Spike thought of the closeness he had shared with Buffy the few, precious times they had slept in each other's arms, held each other with love. That wasn't something he could ever share with Sally, he thought, listening to the sounds of the Turok-Han inside her bedroom. With anyone, really. Still, she had touched him, soothed him, made him more whole, somehow. It was the way Joyce always made him feel, as if he mattered, as if he belonged.

Spike left her door and went to his own bed, lying down although he didn't think he could sleep any longer. He wasn't sure he could have done what Sally had, go to someone to offer comfort without knowing the offer would be accepted. He couldn't risk himself like that anymore. The house was still and the bed warm, and he slid back into sleep, escaping the bleak thoughts.

⸹

Sally stared at Angel at the breakfast table the next evening. Just as he finally got irritated enough to call her on it, her gaze shifted to Spike. When she looked back at Angel, he was waiting for her.

"What?"

"You two look better."

"Better than what?"

Sally shook her head. "I don't know. I just think y'all look better than when you first got here." She shrugged, embarrassed. "Younger, I'd almost say." She stood up and carried her mug to the sink. "Well, those runner beans aren't going to weed themselves."

"Easy picking, now that you've waited," Spike pointed out. He watched her leave through the screened doors, then started a bit when he turned back to the table and found Angel staring at him. "What?"

"She's right. You do look better."

"Not a chance, Peaches. I'm not that lonely."

"You wish," Angel countered. He refilled his cup, then looked up, feeling Spike's gaze resting on him.

"You don't look so… puffy, yourself." Spike's comment was reluctant. "Do you think there was something… poisonous in the, I dunno, atmosphere at Wolfram and Hart?"

Angel paused, the blood halfway to his lips. "Might have been. I wouldn't put it past them." He took a sip. "Maybe it's just clean blood, hard work, fresh air."

"Yeah, we vampires thrive on fresh air," Spike said sarcastically, but he let it go. He stood from the table. "Sally wanted me to help de-California emissions her truck. Think I'll go provide my services to the lady, help her get her engines to revving," he added suggestively, touching his abdomen. He hated to waste a good line, and since he wouldn't say it to her, it had to be Angel by default. "I'll leave you to brood and whatnot."

As much as he was inclined to do just the opposite of whatever Spike suggested, Angel did find himself brooding, wondering if there had been something toxic in the air or water or even brushed onto the surfaces of their desks. He thought of Wesley's tenuous hold on sanity, of Gunn's uncharacteristically ruthless ambition, Lorne's gloominess. Sighing, he forced the fear away. No matter if the poison had been literal or figurative, the firm had been unhealthy for them all.

⸹

July 2004

⸹

"You paid over four hundred dollars for these!" Angel exclaimed in an exasperated, accusing tone, finding the receipt at the bottom of one of the bags of fireworks Sally had brought home. Just learning that there were stores in the South that sold the pretty explosives to any random consumer had been a shock.

His hostess shrugged. "It'll be worth it, if y'all vent some testosterone blowing up things instead of whaling on each other."

"We haven't!" Angel protested. "Not lately."

Spike raised an eyebrow. "And just how is setting off firecrackers and smoke bombs going to ease my lonely, celibate condition, pet?" he asked, his voice silky.

Sally gave him a narrow look. "Not that kind of testosterone." She turned deliberately to Angel. "Y'all are city, so you don't have a clue about what living out in the county means." She included both of them in her grin. "It means, no zoning restrictions. Since it rained during the day and the woods are damp, we're going out to the backyard and fire off Roman candles and mortars and rockets until we founder on it." When neither man returned her grin, she gave an exasperated sigh. "Okay, then. Just try it for a few minutes, and if you don't like it, we'll go rent videos or something."

Two hours later, she sat on an upturned bushel basket and watched the two men take turns firing mortar shells, sending sizzling and crackling packages whizzing high into the air to explode in colorful sparks, the reports thudding against their sensitive ears. After some initial grumbling by Spike about a missing lighter, both of her guests had gotten into the destructive spirit of things. Now they were grinning like kids.

"How'd you know we'd like this, Tolliver?" Spike asked, pausing on his way to get more fireworks from the stash. He smelled of cordite, and his eyes glittered in the dark with manic energy.

She shrugged, looking up at him. "Every so often, Henry would get his shotgun and go hunt down a varmint to kill." She shrugged again. "It wasn't because it was nibbling the garden or digging holes in a field. He just needed to kill something. It… let off pressure, somehow. He needed that, after coming back from the war."

Spike considered her answer for a moment. "Expensive way to vent testosterone," he finally drawled, waving a hand to where Angel was readjusting the length of pipe they were using to launch bottle rockets.

"Worth every penny to see you two having fun."

"You ever wonder about old Henry going postal?"

"Nope. Not so long as he had that varmint gun as a release valve."

He nodded, then gave her a cheeky grin. "You still have that varmint gun?" At her nod, he continued. "You ever thought that Angel, with that hair, looks somewhat like a fat, lazy, old woodchuck?"

"Be nice," she warned him, using the schoolmarm voice. "Besides, down here, we call 'em groundhogs."

⸹

Nothing about the night stood out from any other. Angel and Spike were sitting in the wicker chairs, beers in hand, watching the stars and listening to the tree frogs.

"Remember when we rode those camels in Morocco?" Angel asked.

Spike twitched at the abrupt end to the silence, then sprawled further into the chair. "Yeah. Lot of stars over that desert." They had been part of a caravan, swaddled in robes, traveling with the traders for four days before descending on them at an oasis by the light of those stars.

"This is nice, too," Angel added, meaning the night and the company.

"Doesn't suck," the blond man agreed, and they sat in the chairs for long minutes afterwards, each content in their own way.

⸹

Spike stopped in the doorway of the kitchen. "You're still up," he said, stating the obvious before returning the truck keys to the pegboard rack where they belonged.

Angel grimaced, shifting in his chair at the kitchen table. "Yes."

Spike regarded him for a moment, his head tilted. "What?"

The big vampire shook his head instead of answering. "Want some?" He held up a half-full quart of blood.

"Okay."

"Get a cup." Angel watched him move through the small kitchen. He smelled only of himself and gasoline, a lonesome combination. "Where'd you go?"

Spike shrugged and slung himself into his habitual chair. "Just learning the roads."

"You shouldn't stay out so late."

"Yeah, pro'ly." Sunrise didn't bother him so much these days. "Sally go to bed?"

"Yes."

Spike studied him. "You're saying 'yes' in a curious way this morning."

Angel grimaced. "Accidentally saw her just out of the shower. She was going from the bathroom to her bedroom and her towel slipped."

"Naked, wet, female vampires…" Spike teased.

"Shut up, Spike." He shifted again in his seat, an uncomfortable movement the blond man caught. He lay his head back and chuckled, a rich, throaty sound that made Angel glower. "I mean it, boy. Shut up."

"Using pet names, Peaches?"

"And don't call me that."

His good mood increasing, Spike sprawled against the back of the chair, grinning insolently. "Just go knock on her door."

"I'm a guest here," Angel ground out. He looked down at his clenched hands, then made himself relax. "Besides, I'm probably not her type."

"Nonsense." Spike examined him critically. "You are looking better, lost a little weight–" his smile deepened as Angel glared at him, "but I'm probably prejudiced." He picked up the jar and poured some blood. "After all, you are the last man I slept with." He gave Angel's words back to him with relish.

"Really?"

The surprise in his voice couldn't be faked. "What do you mean, 'really?' Like either of us are particularly turned that way."

"Nothing," Angel backpedaled. "I just thought, you know, you've had more opportunities than I…" He trailed off under the increasingly dark scrutiny of the other man's gaze.

Spike lifted his chin. "How many people you shagged since Darla kicked you out?"

"Can you be any more crude?"

"Yes, I could. No names, just a number."

It was Angel's turn to examine Spike, trying to guess where he was headed. "Three." Then he winced. "No. Thanks to Lorne, four."

A fleeting smile crossed the chiseled features. "Eve, yeah." Then he was serious again. "Seven, since Dru and I left Darla, and one of those is Dru. And another of them, Elizabeth, hardly counts, since you and Darla had already invited them into the family bed."

Angel heard the decades-old resentment still lingering in the boy's tone. "As in, James and Elizabeth?"

"Yeah, as in James and Elizabeth. Not the point." He leaned forward, planting his elbows on either side of his untouched cup. "The point is, you've four notches on your belt after getting souled up. I have seven and no one new since I fought for my soul." He leaned back, satisfied.

Angel just looked annoyed. "What's your point, Spike?"

"My point?" He looked outraged, and the emotion seemed to fuel his ability to wound with words. "My point is, you know me too damn well to assume I've shagged my way across the world. I was perfectly happy in the family bed. It was you and Darla brought other people in, so jaded you needed more variety than four rather limber vampires could provide."

"You're right," Angel admitted quietly.

"I – of course I'm right." He deflated a little.

"What about hunting?"

Spike closed his eyes. "Never hunted that way after you got your soul and stopped making me."

Angel closed his eyes, too. No, sexual predation had been his specialty, one he insisted the younger vampire learn. Once again, he was judging Spike by his own brand of behavior, and once again, Spike was lacking by Angelus' standards.

The blond vampire, however, was looking uncomfortable. "Well, sort of, once in the seventies. Strange days in New York, and all."

"Once?" Angel raised a brow.

"And it wasn't like I did anything, other than pick an entrée. It's just, uh, I," he picked up his mug, "got fellated." Spike took a drink.

Angel gave him a speculative look. "By your entrée?" He sensed some embarrassment and couldn't think of what was causing it.

The blond man didn't look up, but his jaw tightened. "By a lot of entrées."

It felt so good to smirk. "I take it these were male entrées?"

"Hey," Spike protested, looking up. "First, you know hunting doesn't count. Two, no one counts blowjobs as sex anymore. Three," he closed his eyes, "it was pretty much anyone who wandered upstairs at Studio 54, male, female, and other. And there were a lot of drugs floating around." He opened his eyes. "Lot of them in me."

Angel lifted his hands. "Not judging, here." But he nonetheless suppressed a smile. "Quite a mental image, though, I must say."

"You always did like to watch," Spike said waspishly. A reluctant grin lurked at the corner of his mouth, undermining his words.

A line of humans kneeling before his boy, as they should before a Prince of the Aurelians… The smile faded from Angel's face. He hadn't had a thought like that for years, decades. Or, more accurately, for months, since Pavayne dared to harm what belonged to him, presumed to touch what was his to love or destroy. How far down a dark path had he taken this boy, so innocent even after Drusilla sired him, to where he would end up the focus of such debauchery –

"Whatever you're thinking, mate, leave off. You're setting yourself up for a serious bout of brooding. Know the signs by now."

He had to smile. "I guess we know each other pretty well."

"Yeah, that's depressing. Now I feel a definite need to get pissed."

"Just how drunk do you plan to get?" Angel gave him a flirty look.

Spike snorted. "Not enough to drop my towel."

He shook his head. "You can make anything sound dirty."

"'S'a skill few can master."

⸹

Too good to be true, Angel thought. It was raining, a good night for him to explore the steep northern part of Sally's property. Now he was looking at an old wooden building not quite a mile from the farmhouse. A shiny new padlock stood out against the rusty hinges, arousing his suspicions. He wiped water from his eyes and walked around the perimeter, kicking himself for waiting weeks to check out this area. Angel ran his hands over two wide boards on the back wall of the shed, then curved his fingers around one of them. He pulled with a slow, steady pressure, and the old nails at the top and bottom of the plank slid from the frame. He quickly separated the second board and moved inside.

There was little enough light to work with in the gloom of the building on a rainy night, but he could see the outline of something hidden beneath a tarp. He took a handful and began to slide it from whatever was beneath. He heard the sound of mice squeaking in protest and waited until their scurrying feet had fled before he pulled it all the way off. The apparatus wasn't immediately familiar, but after a couple of moments, he figured out what it was. An evil smile spread across his face. Oh, Sally, he thought. I've got you now.

"Hey, Angel. You're soaked," Sally remarked as he came into the kitchen where she was folding laundry. She reached for a dishtowel, but before she handed it to him, her motions slowed and she looked up at him, sensing his mood.

"Duh dum duh-duh duh-duh duh-duh dum," he hummed.

Her eyebrows drew together. "Theme from 'Mission: Impossible?'" she guessed.

"No." He looked wounded. "'Deliverance.'"

"Oh?"

Angel smirked at her, then, asking, "Guess what I found down in the woods?" At her blank look, he added, "Near the beehives."

For a long moment, she looked puzzled. Then her brow cleared. "Oh!" She gave him an embarrassed grin. "Grandpa Tolliver's. Well, my grandfather had one, too, but I reckon you found Henry's grandpa's still."

"Moonshine, Sally?" Angel teased.

She tossed the towel at him. "Yeah, yeah. Grandpa Tolliver was a runner, made his to sell. My mom's father made his for 'medicinal' purposes. He made me taste it when I was a little girl. Told me I'd grow hair on my chest, and if I didn't take a drink to burn it off, I'd get fuzzy just like him." She shuddered. "So, I tasted it."

Angel gave her front an exaggerated leer. "Seems to have worked." He met Spike's eyes as the blond man came in from the hallway. "Guess what I found?"

"Cleavage? A still, you ponce," said Spike, raising a sardonic eyebrow. "Vampire, remember? I heard." He propped himself against the doorway to watch, his hands held out in front of his chest. With too much spare time, he'd broken down and painted his nails black for the first time since Buffy died.

"So, Sally," Angel said, stalking towards her. "How about it?"

"You're dripping on my linoleum," she admonished.

"Do you know how to make moonshine?"

She gave him a patient look. "It's illegal, Angel." Her voice was very deliberate.

"Mm-hum."

"It's dangerous, too. And really stinky. And a lot of hard work."

"Yes?"

Sally sighed. "Why on earth do you want to fire up the still? I'll take you to the biggest liquor store in Asheville; you can get thirty-year Scotch or Kentucky bourbon or something that won't eat the varnish off furniture."

"Can you do it?" He was less than a foot away now.

She let her head fall back and looked at the ceiling in resignation. "Yeah, I reckon so."

"Yes!" Angel scooped her up and spun her around, chuckling in an evil manner.

"Crazy Irishman," Sally sniffed, when he put her down. "Grandpa Tolliver made Henry write down the recipe before he died. It's around here somewhere."

"What do we need?" Angel asked, as if prepared to take notes.

Sally leaned against the counter, considering him. "First, the still needs to be cleaned. Some of the parts might need to be replaced, the thumper, probably. I haven't looked at it in years."

"There's a new padlock on the door," Angel remarked.

She nodded. "I lost the key to the original one. It was pretty rusty anyway."

"Clean it. Okay, what else?" Angel pressed.

"Um, wood for the fire, but that's not a problem. We've got cords and cords up here. Use the four-wheeler to take the wood down. Then use it to move the still to the spring – it's down the hill a bit."

"What else?"

"Jars. If you go around the side of the house, you'll see a cellar door. Find twenty or so quart jars down there and clean them."

"You don't have any of those gallon jugs with the x's?"

"No, fresh out of those." Listening to them, Spike smiled as he recognized her schoolmarm voice.

"Okay, then what?"

"Then, Angel, we go to town and buy a bunch of sugar and yeast and cornmeal."

He showed her the evil grin once more. "This is going to be great!" Chuckling, he went out the door.

Sally glanced over at Spike, who was already chipping the just-dried paint from a thumbnail. "What do you think?"

He shrugged. There had been sort of an itch between his shoulderblades, an old, telltale sign that Angelus was gearing up for a really foul kill. "Nice diversion. Helps him keep busy." Thank God for sublimation, he thought.

Sally turned back to the unfolded laundry. "Moonshine," she sighed and gave a slight shudder.

⸹

Angel rocked back and forth on his heels, impatient to begin. He had worked tirelessly, and the still was ready to go. The mash mixture had only been bubbling for two days, but the hot weather had helped the fermentation along. "Can we start now?"

Sally looked up at him, misery on her face. "Promise me you won't tell anyone." The three of them had moved the still the short distance to a clearing where a spring trickled from the hillside. She'd informed them that distilling made the bark of the surrounding trees darker, a telltale sign revenuers would look for, so the contraption was in a different location each time. Now it was assembled, the raw ingredients sealed in the kettle, and dry wood beneath waited to be kindled.

Angel paused, settling his weight from the balls of his feet. "Don't tell? Why not?"

She rolled her eyes and launched into an excessively rural voice. "I spent the summer with my friend in North Carolina. We made moonshine! Then we ran around barefoot in overalls and played the banjo! Then I married my cousin!" Spike looked away to hide his grin.

Something seemed to occur to Angel. "You wouldn't happen to have any of those Daisy Duke shorts, would you?" At her hostile look, he raised his palms. "I won't tell, Sally." Angel had a sudden idea, and his eyes lit up. "Or, I'll say that we were preserving a folk art."

Mollified, Sally gave him a reluctant smile. "Smooth-talkin' man. My mother warned me about men like you."

"What about men like me?" Spike asked.

"She was a godly woman and didn't know men like you existed." Her smile took any sting from her words.

"Are we ready?" Angel asked impatiently.

Sally sighed. "All right. Spike, fire it up."

Spike touched the wood beneath the kettle with his new lighter. After it caught and settled into a good blaze, the illumination from the fire joined what little moonlight made it through the dense summer foliage. They fed the fire and waited for the contents of the kettle to come to a boil.

"How long until we can drink it?" Angel asked. "It doesn't take long, does it?"

Sally raised an eyebrow. "You don't age corn liquor, Angel. You sell it or drink it as quick as you can. Get it in a quart jar, it's ready." She shook her head. "While we're waiting for the doublings, you wanna hear about Grandpa Tolliver's shine and a guy over in Buncombe County, Buddy Phipps?"

Angel shrugged. "Sure, while we're waiting." Spike hid another smile, recognizing Sally's storytelling tone.

"All right. Grandpa Tolliver was notorious in these parts as a bootlegger during Prohibition. Eugene was his given name, and he had a reputation for being dangerous man, carrying a gun and everything. Well, old Buddy Phipps was fencing along the road that ran by his property early one morning, just a straight length by a field. He heard a car coming up real fast on that dirt road, so he looked up. Roaring up at him, raising a huge cloud of dust, he saw Eugene Tolliver's Model T. Nothing but flat fields on either side of him, no place to hide. So Buddy stood there and waited, hoping that Eugene would just honk and go on by.

"But, no, he hit the brakes and stopped. 'Mornin,' Buddy!' he hollered. 'You workin' already?' Well, Buddy allowed that he was, and that seemed to just gall Eugene Tolliver. 'I won't have a friend of mine workin' this early in the mornin!' he said, and told Buddy to get in the car and come with him. Well, Buddy didn't want to, and started to explain that he had a lot of fencing to do. Old Eugene pulled out the biggest, shiniest, longest pistol that Buddy ever did see and pointed it right at him. Then Buddy reckoned that he had time to go for a ride, after all.

"Eugene Tolliver hit the gas and they flew down the road, that big pistol on the seat between them. Buddy noticed that he had a jar of corn liquor propped between his thighs. Eugene saw him looking at the moonshine. 'You want a sip?' he asked. Buddy was a decent man, didn't hardly touch liquor. He said, 'No, if it's all the same to you, Eugene, I'd rather not.'

"Now, this wasn't the answer Eugene was looking for. He took up the pistol again and pointed it at Buddy. 'I asked you if you want to share my corn liquor, what I put up with my own two hands.' Since he put it that way, Buddy allowed that he might like a sip after all. Eugene handed the jar across to Buddy, who took a drink. His eyes watered and rolled back up into his head, he shook and shuddered, his face went deathly pale, then turned the color of fire. He saw spots and felt his stomach shrivel up like a raisin. After about a minute, his jaw unlocked. 'Smooth,' he managed to wheeze, and handed the jar back.

"Grandpa Tolliver looked across at him, then he picked up that pistol and held it out to Buddy. 'Here. Take it, Buddy!' Buddy took the gun, holding it like a lady holding a stinky sock. 'Now, you turn that gun on me, Buddy!' Buddy was confused and the thought of aiming a pistol at another person just ran all over him, but he was more scared of Eugene than he was of any gun. Once he had it pointed, Eugene looked over at him and begged, 'Buddy, I want you to order me to take a drink of this here shine or else you shoot me, okay?'"

Angel chuckled. "Cute story. You're just trying to wind me up, though."

"Your funeral," Sally said, shrugging.

"Already had one."

She had been telling the truth about using the still; it was hot, smelly, and definitely work. After they had distilled enough to fill about half the jars, Angel was ready to call it a good-enough night's work. By the time they doused the fire, cleaned up the still, and straggled back to the farmhouse, it was almost three in the morning.

Angel settled himself on the couch and waited for the other two. Spike and Sally came in at the same time, but the blond man saw the three jars of clear, oily liquid lined up on the coffee table first.

"Moonshine, Spike," he said, grinning at the other man rather evilly. "Also called mountain dew. Want a sip?"

"Angel," he warned.

"Do you know the last time I got falling-down drunk?" Angel put his feet on the table next to the jar on the end. "Is there a better place to do it than here? Miles away from any humans?"

Spike shook his head, but sat down on the opposite end of the couch. Sally perched on the edge of the recliner and stared at the glass containers. After a moment, Angel sat up and passed each of them a jar. He took the one remaining and unscrewed the lid.

"I am reminded," Sally said, watching as he lifted the jar to his lips, "of the great philosopher Socrates' last words: 'I drank what?'"

"Cheers," Angel said, and took a sip. The other two watched him.

"Tears of joy, mate?"

"No," he whispered, his voice strangled. "But I think this will do the trick. A toast." He raised his jar until the other two touched theirs to his.

"So, what are we toasting?" Sally asked.

He hesitated a moment. "Friends." His voice was firm, and he met both green and blue eyes briefly.

"To friends," Sally agreed, raising her glass and taking a small sip.

"Friends," Spike echoed. His voice was neutral, and he took a heartier drink than either of the others.

⸹

An hour later, Angel was sprawled on the floor of the living room, having pushed the coffee table out of the way. He loved this, being among his own kind again. Most of his jar was empty. "All right," he said, his voice slurred. "Celerbee… celebrity that you would sire. You first, Sally."

She was also on the floor, lying on her stomach with her arms folded beneath her head. She had managed about half of her jar, declaring the brew wasn't all that strong, not like old Eugene's. "Kurt Cobain." She made an annoyed face, working very hard to do so. "'M selfish. Should still be writing songs."

Angel pointed a large finger at her in agreement. "Yeah, a little demon would have kept him from caring." He swiveled his head to look at Spike. "What about you? Who'd you sire?"

Still sitting on the couch, Spike had conquered half of his jar. A heavier drinker than either of the others, he was considerably less buzzed. "You know who Kurt Cobain is?"

"Sure. He's got that wife that reminds me of that one vampire from Australia, whazzhername."

"Don't say anything… Melba? Was it Melba?"

"Yeah. Thass her. She even scared Darla."

"Still say Darla slept with her."

"Yeah, pro'ly. Anyway, who'd you sire?"

"I don't sire anyone, mate. You know that."

"Jus' for the sake of argument," Angel pressed.

Spike sighed. "Marilyn Monroe," he said with a shrug. He actually thought she'd be tedious as a vampire, but it was an easy answer. "We could bleach each other's hair." When Angel finished chuckling, he asked, "How 'bout you? Who would you sire, Angel?"

"Mae West," Angel said, sighing. He took another drink of moonshine, then grimaced. "Saw her in person in New York once. Itty-itty-bitty thing," he slurred, "but…" He held his hands over his head and described a fairly coordinated hourglass figure in the air. "Pocket Venus."

"Whazza pocket Venus?" Sally demanded, her eyes closed.

"Little, tiny goddess just about right to tuck into your pocket," Angel said, logically.

Spike sighed. "You've always liked 'em short, mate."

"Dru wasn't that short," Angel contradicted him.

"Darla was."

"Darla," Angel sighed, and Spike was surprised to see tears form in his eyes. "She was such a good mom."

Spike raised his eyebrows and borrowed a Scoobyism. "Thought I was the 'Oedipal much' one in our happy family."

"Not my mom," Angel said, annoyed. "Righty. Food you miss most."

"Bread," said Sally, promptly. "I get so dang tired of spicy food. I'd like to be able to taste something supple." She frowned and tried again. "Subtle."

"Oranges," Spike mused, a slight smile touching his face at the memory. "We always had oranges at Christmas." After a moment, he prompted, "You, Angel. Food you miss most?"

"Oatmeal." This earned him a pair of disbelieving stares, but he was well set to ignore them.

"I'm changin' my answer," Sally said suddenly, her voice dreamy. "Garden tomatoes, just like a little piece of summer. Red and ripe and hot from the sun, just picked from the vine. All firm and warm in your hand… bite into one, a big, sloppy bite, and feel the tang on your tongue and taste the color red and just let the juice run down your chin… mmm…."

Spike stared at her, bloodlust leaping in his veins at her description, inadvertently so much like feeding. Her eyes were closed as she rested her head on her folded arms, a smile on her lips. He glanced at Angel, who was looking at her with a rather different kind of lust. "Care to change your answer, mate?" he asked sardonically.

"Oh! I meant to ask earlier." He put his arms behind his head, lifting it enough to stare blearily at them. "Either of you ever eaten frog?"

"Not in years," Sally said. Then, ever helpful, "Still got gigs somewhere around here, if you want."

"Had 'em once in France," Spike answered, his voice heavy.

"Bet you had frog legs, huh?" When they both nodded, Angel grinned. "You got it wrong then."

"How's that?" Spike asked.

"You wanna know how to eat a frog? You don't eat their legs," Angel said dramatically. "You hook their legs over your ears. That's how you eat a frog."

"Eeww," Sally said, giggling.

Spike laughed reluctantly. "Yup, there's definitely an apocalypse afoot: Angel told a joke."

The smile faded from the big vampire's face. "Heard that back in the eighties. Been saving it to tell to…" To anyone, he supposed.

Sally shook her head, missing his quick melancholy. "It's like a pair of frog-rimmed glasses. Gonna need a bath to get rid of that visual." She lifted herself up onto her elbows. "I can't get up," she informed them, "and I'm getting really sleepy." She let her head fall toward the floor. "I'll fall asleep and end up killing you both." She giggled again. "That's not funny. Wouldn't be good at all, but I can't make my legs work."

Spike set his jar deliberately on the far side of the couch and stood up, swaying slightly. "Here," he said, offering his hand. After a moment of looking at it owlishly, Sally put her hand in his. He hauled her to her feet, then braced her as she tipped toward him.

"Thank you," she said, again very deliberately. "Night, Angel."

"Night, Sally." He waved at her from the floor.

"You know, Angel, this much alo-cohol would kill you if you weren't dead already," she pointed out, swaying into the blond man at her side.

"Thass what I was going for," Angel agreed. His look now held nothing more than benevolence.

Spike shook his head and led his hostess into the hallway. He held the door to her bedroom, then found the lights. "Here you go."

"Do I have shoes on?" They both looked down at her bare feet. "Oh. Good." She pulled the scrunchy from her ponytail and shook out her hair. Then she shook her head again. "Wow. That makes me really dizzy."

He smiled a little, thinking that she had just done a very Fred sort of thing. "Come on," Spike said patiently, moving toward her bed. Sally more or less sat down on it and watched as Spike pulled the terrycloth wristbands over her limp hands. He sat on the bed and closed the manacles about her wrists, then ankles. "There. You're all set for the night."

"Thank you. You know, this stuff isn't as strong as what Grandpa Tolliver brewed, but I think my head is going to hurt tomorrow."

"I think you're right."

"I owe you a hurting head, don't I, honey?"

"No, not at all," he told her, but it made him grin.

"Teliha," she licked her lips and continued in the deliberate voice, "tequila is a lot better than moonshine. Angel's a crazy man."

"I think I prefer almost anything to tequila."

"I really like you, Spike. Did you know that?" Her eyes were closed.

"I do now," he said, smiling again.

"Good."

"Go to sleep," he told her, but she already had. He left her room, turning out the light. As an afterthought, he got a garbage can from the bathroom and put it by her bed, thinking of her nerves after the vampire attack in Cleveland. It didn't occur to him how much better he felt, having the opportunity to take care of someone again. He stood outside his room for a while, debating about whether to leave Angel on the living room floor. Mostly because of the toast, he went to get the other man.

"Spike!" Angel was still on the floor and sounded delighted to see him.

"Angel!" Spike said in return. "Let's get you off the floor." He helped the other man up, and Angel collapsed on the couch. He didn't let go of Spike's wrist, and pulled the blond man onto the cushion beside him.

"Surely you weren't trying to get me drunk and have your way with me," Spike said dryly, looking down to where his grandsire's fingers clutched his arm.

"No. And don't call me Shirley." He grinned, pleased that he could make Spike laugh, however unwillingly. "I like that stuff," Angel proclaimed, pointing at his now-empty jar of moonshine.

"So I gathered." Spike disentangled his arm. "I just don't know why."

"Not quite legal, not quite bad." He shrugged. "I can identify."

"Well, that makes as much sense as anything."

"I was the sensible one," Angel agreed. "You were always rash, like I was before Darla sired me."

"So Darla said, often and over again. She never much liked me."

"I never much liked you, either, 'cept when I liked you."

"Yeah, and you're the sensible one."

"We used to go out drinkin' together all the time."

"Used to do a lot of things together that we don't do anymore," Spike agreed, irony in his voice.

"I miss that." Angel's voice was soft. "Don't you?"

Did he miss it, the feeling of family? Spike wasn't sure; it had all been about Buffy for so long. He dodged the question. "C'mon, mate. You'll want your bed."

Angel let Spike haul him to his feet. "We've sort of been friends for… ever."

"Yeah, seems that way. Watch the doorknob."

"You're my only buddy, Spike. Gunn, I was the boss. And Wesley… Wes is dead. He stole my baby, anyway. You were a beautiful boy, William." A bit of brogue crept into his voice. "What a family we had." He looked at Spike, seeming suddenly much more lucid. "I do miss it." For a moment, there was a hint of yellow in his brown eyes. "'S'good to be here, no humans. Never really your friends, humans."

"You're just a wee bit drunk, Angel. Here we are." Spike opened the door to Angel's room, didn't bother with the light switch. "You've got loads of friends, and you'll be able to think of all their names tomorrow." He propelled the dark-haired man toward the bed, his mind on the possibility of a football game on one of the Spanish-language channels.

Angel put a hand on Spike's arm again. "I'd rather fight with you than anyone, Spike."

"Must be why we fight so much, then."

"'Longside you, I mean."

Spike sighed and made himself meet the other man's eyes. "We make a pretty good team," he admitted.

"You're bold, and I'm canny. Don't know why we don't get along."

"The women I love, you get to first," Spike said flatly.

Angel shook his head. "We're too much alike." He fell back onto the mattress, his legs still on the floor. "Like father, like son. Connor too much…."

Spike looked puzzled, the name niggling at his memory, then shook his head. "All right, Granddad." He lifted Angel's legs and shifted them on the bed. "Get some sleep."

"I couldn't do what you did."

The blond man didn't try to misunderstand, just paused at the door. "Well, there was a lot you did that I couldn't bring myself to do. Evens out, dunnit?"

"I hate you sometimes. Sorry 'bout that."

"'S'alright," Spike shrugged. "I hate you a lot of the time, too. Good night, Angel." He closed the door.

"Good night, Spike my boy. Love you."

Spike stood outside the door, feeling his stomach land somewhere around his knees. He closed his eyes for a moment, swaying even though he felt suddenly stone sober. His jaw flexed. "Stupid git," he whispered, hoarse and fierce. "Love you, too." Then he fled the house, not returning until daylight drove him inside.

⸹

All three vampires were reserved the next night. Sally took the opportunity to pick a mess of green beans and sat quietly at the kitchen table to break them, putting them in freezer bags for the winter. The task held no interest for either of the men, and both ended up outside, leaving separately. After a walk along the property line, Angel headed down to the water. He came upon Spike just as he went into the lake for a swim, pale skin disappearing into the water but his bone-white hair a visible beacon.

A swim sounded good to Angel, too, so he doffed his clothes and waded into the cool water. He glided forward, making almost no sound, the smell of green water and trees bringing to mind midnight swims with his drinking buddies in Ireland. There would be splashing and insults about the size of genitals and frequent trips to shore for more whisky. Swimming with Spike was more like hunting, silent, still. Angel found himself wishing for more moonshine.

A swish of water ahead and to his left alerted him to where Spike had left the lake, and he struck toward the same point. The boy was sitting on a rock, feet muddy, watching him. He wasn't close enough to tell if his expression was sardonic or measuring. Angel went ashore and found a nearby rock, and they both sat looking back over the lake, drops of water streaming down their pale bodies.

"So, come here often?"

Sardonic, then. Angel tried for something neutral. "Nice night."

"It is."

He looked down at the mud drying on his own feet, wishing the rock were closer to the water so he could rinse them off. Angel glanced surreptitiously at Spike, who didn't seem to be as fastidious, sitting as still as a statue. The blond man raised an arm suddenly, spoiling the illusion as he pointed across the lake a little to the right of the boathouse.

A small herd of deer had wandered down to drink. The younger ones went directly to the water's edge, dipping their noses to the cool liquid. Behind them, three adults waited their turn to drink, velvety ears swiveling toward the night sounds, on alert for danger, white tails and stamping hooves ready to signal the presence of any predator. Across the bank, ageless death watched, silly grins on their faces.

The herd was gone in less than four minutes. The two vampires could hear them loping up the slope, probably headed for the hayfields higher up on the property. "Whyever would you want to be human," Spike asked, "when you can see things like that?"

"Human?"

"The whole Shanshu thing."

"As I recall, you were bent on fulfilling the prophecy yourself."

"Didn't really want to be human. Just wanted to upstage you."

Angel looked away from the shrugging boy, his teeth clenched. "Spike, you didn't upstage me. You nearly killed me."

"Might have been a bit uneasy about hell," the blond man muttered, "not that long after Pavayne, you recall. Cup was supposed to wash sins away." He put his chin a little higher in the air. "You're twice my age. Didn't 'spect to defeat you, not a hundred percent. Dangerous for me, too. Anyway, you didn't answer the question. What's so appealing about bein' human?"

Angel didn't answer for a long time. "I'm twice your age."

"Yeah, think I just said that."

"You've seen vampires older than me."

Spike's turned to stare at him, amused. "It's about vanity? 'S'not like you'd have to look at yourself in a mirror, mate."

"No, it's not about–" Angel pulled his knees closer to his chest, feeling exposed, not because he was naked. "A hundred years, I hid from my own kind among humans. Easy to do; I almost never went to demon face. But…" He trailed off again, then simply held his hand out toward the boy.

Spike gave him a narrow look, as if expecting Angel to use it to strike him. After a moment, he took the big vampire's hand in his own and examined it. Spike's eyes widened, and he searched Angel's pained face.

"I noticed a couple of years ago," he said. "My nails are beginning to taper. Maybe another decade or two, they'll be talons all the time." Angel firmed his mouth. "Maybe it would have been better to never try to live in the world again, but, Will," he let out most of his breath, "I just got so tired of being lonely."

Having found a look years ago that scared people and still got him laid, Spike hadn't given much thought to his appearance since. He had moved with ease among demons and humans alike most of his existence, with more success than most vampires. To his mind, Angel had chosen his hundred years of exile, but it wasn't as if either of them could live in the demon world anymore. When the day came that Angel couldn't pass as human, there would be no place for him.

Realizing that he was still holding his grandsire's hand, Spike squeezed his fingers and let go. "Wouldn't worry about it overmuch, Li – er, mate. Probably get dusted long before you look like the Master."

Angel snorted, putting his forearm back on his knee. "Thanks. I feel so much better."

After a few minutes of silence that were somehow quite comfortable, Spike took a breath. "When you can't do human any longer, I'm still around, I'll look you up. Don't promise to be good company, but I'll drop by and raid your liquor cabinet."

"Thanks," Angel said again, quietly.

"Yeah, well," Spike mumbled, standing up and starting for the water.

Surprised by the embarrassment he felt rolling off the boy, Angel stood too, catching the blond man by the arm. He leaned forward carefully, not wanting to see Spike flinch away, and touched their foreheads together for a second. It was a gesture of affection between vampires.

Spike clearly wasn't expecting it. He gave Angel a tight nod, then turned and waded into the water, going into a flat dive as soon as he was thigh-deep. Watching him swim away, almost as quiet as an African crocodile, Angel felt a small smile settle onto his lips. Since Spike never had gotten the hang of staying dead, the boy's offer was comforting.

⸹

Most mornings, Sally washed dishes by hand, watching the lightening sky through the kitchen window. When she finished, she would close the blinds and wipe down the counters. Today, Angel had helped her dry.

"Why don't you use the dishwasher?"

She gave him a distracted smile. "Habit. We haven't always had a dishwasher. Plus, it usually takes three or four days for me to fill it up, and smell gets to be a factor."

"More of us here now. More dishes," he pointed out.

"It lets me think," she shrugged.

"What are you thinking about?"

"My neighbors, the McNeils. They're gone now." She ran her hand along the bottom of the sudsy water, checking for missed cutlery. "I killed Dale. Had to dust him. He was the one who kept the farm going. They sold out after that and moved away."

"How long ago?"

"1951." Sally pulled the stopper free and began rinsing the dishrag. "I'm just glad I don't remember any details."

"Be thankful."

She turned to examine him. "You remember what your demon did before you got your soul, right?" When he nodded, Sally furrowed her brow. "I don't. I mean, I know I've fed," her green eyes darkened, "I know I've killed. That feeling afterwards. But I have to backtrack by scent."

"I remember." Angel wasn't looking at her. "I never bothered backtracking." He lifted a shoulder. "No soul."

"Why does your soul feel guilty when it wasn't even there?"

"Because it's a curse. I'm supposed to feel guilty for what Angelus did."

Her gaze sharpened, but all she did was pat his arm. Sally dashed out a couple of minutes later, giving the purple sky a nervous look, and ran to the motor pool. "Hey, Spike. Just thought you'd like to know morning's coming."

He was crouched down next to the motorcycles. "Know that, pet."

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"I was just talking to Angel about guilt over what our demons do." She looked troubled and wasn't facing him.

"Yeah?"

"I don't remember what happens when my demon gets loose. I know it's my responsibility," she added hastily. "Angel says he remembers things he did before he got his soul, and he feels guilty for them."

When she didn't say anything else, Spike gave her an impatient snort. "I remember what I did, and I can now feel guilt for it. Soul lets that happen. No real remorse for most things without a soul."

"You did those things." Before he could interrupt, Sally went on in a very soft tone, "but Angelus did the things Angel feels bad about."

Several emotions passed over Spike's expressive face, none of them exactly noble. "Noticed that myself. Probably just a way of distancing himself from the pain of it." He stood from beside the bikes and began walking away. "But in other people's eyes, making that little distinction sure does give him a free pass." The deep voice was bitter as he called over his shoulder. "Me, though? I'm just a serial killer in prison."

Sally could tell he was quoting someone, and her heart hurt for him. She thought of the manacles she wore every night. Whoever said those words, they sure did fit her. Sally sighed and headed through the dawn back to the safety of the farmhouse.

⸹

A few days later, Angel made his usual two calls to Charles and Giles. He accepted that he wouldn't be going back to L.A. anytime soon and had asked Charles to send flowers to Nina, with a card that said simply 'Goodbye.' He had also asked Gunn to make some very roundabout inquiries about one of the last clients he had, a young man, just to make sure he wasn't being harassed. Charles gave him the good news that Connor had not been bothered by any strange visitors. Angel gave Gunn his heartfelt thanks, and hung up the phone, feeling lighter than he had in days.

The second call was less satisfactory, and he went out of the house to the outbuilding that Spike mockingly called the motor pool, where Sally kept her tractor, the ATV, and Henry's toys, an old car and two motorcycles that he had purchased during his first, restless retirement in the late sixties. The blond man had gone into rhapsodies over the bikes, a Ducati 900ss and a Harley V-twin, and had recently devoted most of his time to getting the Harley running. Spike was practically living in the shed, and Angel only saw him at the breakfast table.

Sally was sitting on an old milking stool, holding a glass of ice water and a socket set as she watched Spike work. "So, this skeleton walks into a bar and says to the bartender, "Give me a beer and a mop." Spike's hands stopped their movement, and he gave her a reluctant grin.

She looked up at Angel when he came in, smiling at him. "Hey, Angel. How was everyone?" Spike held out a hand, and she put another socket in it without asking which he needed. Whatever they were working on, it apparently wasn't going very well.

"I swear this is metric," he muttered, the ratchet slipping. "Bollocks." He tried again to wedge his large fingers into the engine, but the space was too confined.

"Everyone's fine," Angel answered, "but Giles wants me to meet one of the slayers in Knoxville, Tennessee, to pick up something. He wouldn't say what it was over the phone, but he thought we would all be interested in it."

Sally nodded. "Knoxville's less than two hours from here, depending on how fast you drive. Quickest… No, better do easiest. Pick up I-40 West and just follow it in. When does he want you to go?"

"Tomorrow." Angel leaned against the four-wheeler, watching Spike adjust a vise grip. "Apparently one of the slayers is driving down to Florida to meet her family at the beach." He shrugged. "Knoxville's on her way. Any idea where Neyland Stadium is?"

Sally grinned. "Yeah, it's easy to find. It's where the Volunteers play football. American football, I mean," she clarified, glancing at Spike. "Just look for the University of Tennessee exit; the stadium is on the right, and you can't turn left because the road runs along a river. I'd say you can't miss it, but I don't know your sense of direction."

"I've got a good sense of direction," Angel said, a little defensively.

"Then you can't miss it. You're welcome to take the truck or the car," Sally offered.

Angel gave her a look that was half-warm and half-exasperated. Sometimes her Southern hospitality put him on edge; it seemed almost an invitation to take advantage. "Thanks," he said. "Do you mind…?" He gestured at the tarp-covered car, and Sally shook her head.

"Let me see a 5/8ths," Spike said, holding out his hand again, ready to disassemble the entire motor. "Bloody stupid Harleys… if they didn't sound so good…" Angel had been mildly surprised that Spike knew how to fix engines, to weld, and had no fear of computers, but the two of them had been out of touch for decades. He wondered if Spike played up the useless layabout persona for his own purposes. It worked to his advantage that people underestimated him, forgot that he was the only vampire to have killed two Slayers. Angel knew that he underestimated the blond man, too, even though he knew better. Old habits were hard to break.

He was jealous of Spike; he had admitted that to himself some time ago. Professionally, there were two Slayers, and personally, there was one Slayer. He would listen, along with Sally, to the stories Spike told about life in Sunnydale, his love for Buffy always unapologetic, clear to see. What Spike had done for her was so far outside the range of normal behavior for a demon… Angelus didn't love 'Buf' and wouldn't take a soul if it was offered on a silver tureen of virgin's blood.

Worst of all, Spike seemed to have much less trouble readjusting to having a soul. Angel was so resentful, he was surprised at how well the two of them had been getting along. The easy mood at the house had a lot to do with Sally, he supposed, but they did have a long history together, some affection for each other. He dimly remembered talking companionably to Spike the night they'd made the moonshine. He'd felt close to the blond man again the next night, but it hadn't lasted. Yet the three of them had an easy camaraderie. This was the closest thing to a normal family life Angel had known since before Holz had taken Connor.

Their past, though, was always lurking. Sally had taken them to a county fair to see the Independence Day fireworks. The three of them had squeezed onto a single seat on the Ferris wheel and ridden it during the display. Angel had felt free and lighthearted, almost young, a cool breeze ruffling his hair in the hot night, high above the crowd with the sizzling, booming rockets. Afterwards, he and Spike had each won an enormous stuffed cartoon character for Sally, using their unnatural strength to readjust the odds of knocking over the bottom-heavy wooden pins. The surly barker leered at Sally as he passed her the second stuffed animal. "So, Red," he had asked, giving their innocent competition a sleazy spin, "which one you taking home tonight?" His eyes were fixed on her chest the whole time.

It must have ticked Sally off, because she had aimed a rich, sex-laden smile at the man. Although he wasn't on the receiving end of it, Angel could vouch that the target was ultimately the man's groin, because that's certainly where he'd felt it. He'd wondered again about the mesmer, about how well she understood her own abilities. Sally handed a stuffed animal to him and the other to Spike, then slid an arm around their waists. "Both. Tonight, I'm taking them both home," she had answered in a sultry voice, leaving the barker with a stunned look on his face. Sally slipped her hands into the back pocket of their jeans as she guided them away from the booth, her fingers a casual caress with every step they took.

Once they were several yards away and the crowd had hidden them from the man's view, she released them and burst into laughter. "Did you see the look on his face?" she had asked. "Priceless! Hah! What a jerk. Trying to get you two to fight, just because you beat his game." Spike started chastising her, going on about Penthouse Forum for some reason.

But what Angel remembered most was the brief look he shared with Spike over her head as they turned away from the carnie, alive with the silent communication that had so often passed between them when they hunted. Sally wasn't the first girl to offer to take them both home. Their contrasting fair and dark good looks had always been effective bait. They had held women and men between their bodies as they feasted, and it had been a game to see how long they could keep their victims willing. More than one human had died happy in their shared embrace, oblivious to the fact that lust was secondary to their hunger. As their eyes met over Sally's head, Angel knew that if he made a move, Spike's would be automatic and complementary.

Then the blond-haired man gave his head a small shake, breaking the connection. When Sally finally appealed to him to tell Spike he was overreacting, Angel gave her a false smile and advised the other man to lighten up. He'd shrugged when Spike caught his eye, clearly disgusted, but there was no reason to involve Sally in their darkness. If they were in any way typical demons, they would all be going home to a shared bed. Angel wondered if Spike lost sleep that night, too, seeing those long-dead humans again, the faces of their victims. Angel suspected he hadn't, and he resented that most of all. The boy's soul wasn't a curse.

Angel took a deep breath to clear his thoughts, stood up from the ATV, and went over to the car. It was low but not short, and he pulled the tarp toward him. He stared at the uncovered car for a few seconds, all morbid memories leaving his mind, then said hoarsely, "Sally, this is a 1967 Mustang."

Spike abandoned the motorcycle and went to Angel's side, admiring the sleek black machine. Then he got a wicked grin on his face. "Mustang Sally," he said, looking over at her. "Ride, Sally, ride."

She shot him a warning glance, but got up from the stool and came over to them, the ice in her glass clinking. "Henry's other midlife crisis toy," she said by way of explanation. "Don't think I haven't heard all of the Sally songs before," she told Spike pointedly, "from Henry." Looking over at Angel, she grinned. "I don't have to ask which one you want to drive to Knoxville. I had it out the first of May. It's in good running condition, not like the bikes."

"V-8?" Angel asked, a lopsided grin on his face.

"Mm-hmm," Sally replied, clearly delighted.

"Angel's in love," Spike said.

"And you aren't?" Angel shot back. He tossed a look at the bike by the doors.

"Why don't you go to the kitchen and get the keys?" Sally suggested. "Take it out and see if sounds all right." He looked down at her, and something in his expression made her grin. She slid her arm around his waist and gave him a quick hug, and this one felt perfectly wholesome. "Go on. Just remember to be back before dawn. There's nothing special about the windows on this one." She watched him leave, then turned to Spike, shaking her head in amusement.

He was watching her with narrow eyes. "How about 'Lay Down, Sally?'"

"Heard it," she said shortly. "Détente, honey. Don't make me use the ice water." She held the glass up in a threatening manner.

Spike snatched it from her in a blurred movement. He gave her a cheeky grin and lifted the glass to his lips to drain the water. When he took it away from his mouth, he had captured an ice cube between his teeth. Spike passed the glass back to her, then took the ice in his fingers, giving her a considering look. Sally backed away from him, and he took a step forward. She fished in the glass for an ice cube of her own, and Spike stopped.

"Détente," he agreed. He popped the ice back into his mouth and crunched it up. "You wouldn't feel it anyway through those seven layers of clothes," he added in an undertone, knowing full well she would hear. What he heard was Angel returning, so he went back to the bike and began moving the scattered tools away from the doors.

This wasn't the only time Spike had noticed Sally hugging Angel. She was comfortable touching the dark-haired man, putting a hand on his forearm or shoulder, even going to him for help removing a splinter from the back of her leg after an enthusiastic Gimli had knocked her into a new fencepost. She had been wearing shorts that night instead of overalls or jeans. Angel had leaned past her, his large hand wrapped around her bare thigh, and leered at Spike with apparent amusement. The other man seemed to have an intuitive grasp of how to keep his teasing meaningless, whereas the only way Spike had found to stay in bounds was to keep his mouth shut. He wasn't good at that.

Since the meteor shower, Sally only touched him in the most impersonal ways, like when she handed him a tool. He knew it wasn't logical to feel hurt by this; he was the one who had set the boundaries their first night in North Carolina, after all, and he had violated those boundaries in the orchard. Part of his desire for touch was just his vampiric nature; they were tactile creatures. Sally was still perfectly friendly, easy to talk to, but nothing in her behavior showed that she was attracted to him.

Angel got her touches.

Rivalry would always be part of his relationship with Angel. He didn't mind her tweaking the carnie, for instance, but he did mind that she included Angel in the tweaking. The agreement he had with Sally also made him more aware of how much his strong sexual nature shaped the way he viewed the world. Spike still recoiled from how quickly his thoughts had turned from violence to sex in the apple orchard. The soul was supposed to cure that.

Despite all of these logical realizations, his body still wanted her touch. She was friendly and female and not bad-looking, and he'd never met a vampire that wasn't good in bed. Sexual desire was manageable, of course. The scary thing was that he wanted more of her tenderness, that he wanted anything beyond sex from her or any woman who wasn't Buffy. Maybe he had a chance here to be accepted, if he didn't let his stupid cock bollix it up.

He had missed an opportunity for acceptance by not making an extra effort to get to know Tara, had even missed something deeper with Fred by holding himself aloof from the people at Wolfram and Hart. Spike knew he'd thrown away a chance with Joyce, too blinded by his passion for her daughter to really get to know her. Women were so much better at loving than men were, and he'd known that undemanding, pure love until he died the first time, had so taken it for granted that he simply killed his mother... He'd had it with the Nibblet, too, until he messed everything up.

That still hurt too much to think about.

Angel was family, and he didn't want to look at that closely. They hadn't fought each other for months in Los Angeles, had actually fought side-by-side the way they had in the bad old days. It had been better than those distant years, in fact. Darla always disapproved of their brawling, which never made sense to Spike, since that was what had attracted her attention to Liam in the first place, his ability to fight in a bar.

Sally was asking Angel to run an errand, to get a metric socket set. The big vampire drove the Mustang carefully from the barn, and honked the horn in farewell. She winked at Spike and put her finger to her lips, listening to Angel drive the length of the driveway in a conservative manner. Once he had shut the gate behind him and pulled onto the road, they heard him run the gears in less than ten seconds. She gave an amused snort.

"How come you didn't go with your best boy, then?" he asked, his hands on his hips as he looked down at the remaining tools, debating whether to do any more work. "Sod it." He hunkered down and began putting them away.

Sally paused on her way out the doors, carrying the stool back to the barn. "Angel seems like someone who needs his space, I guess, time alone with himself. Driving is one of the best ways to think things through."

"Mmm," Spike said, noncommittally, and Sally went out. Alone sounded pretty good. He cleared away the toolbox and turned out the lights, leaving the doors open for Angel's return. He didn't want to go inside, so he wandered over to the dark tobacco shed to the parked truck and let down the tailgate. Sitting on it, kicking his feet, Spike lit a cigarette.

"Hey," Sally's voice came from the doorway. "I don't mind the smoking, but please not in the highly combustible old wooden building."

He closed his eyes. "Sorry. I didn't think."

"I kind of figured that's exactly what you were doing out here."

He looked up at her outline in the doorway. "Yeah, well, not my strong suit."

"Mind if I join you?" She didn't wait for his answer, but sat down on the other end of the tailgate. Spike immediately stood up and put out the cigarette with the toe of his boot, being extra careful.

"Poor man's antidepressant," Sally said. She saw his head turn toward her. "I slogged through most of a book, I can't remember the name, something really dry and academic, and toward the end it described the antidepressant effects of tobacco. That was the eureka moment for me, because I've seen so many people sit and stew, then light up. All you ever hear is that tobacco's more addictive than heroin, but I'd never heard why, really. An almost instantaneous, short-lived antidepressant."

"Huh." He leaned against the tailgate, but didn't sit down.

"Good thoughts or bad thoughts?"

He didn't answer for a long time. "Complicated thoughts." He saw her nod in the darkness and felt her shift.

"I'll leave you alone, then."

"No, that's okay. Can be alone with you." He opened his mouth to apologize, cringing at a memory that his soul hurriedly trotted out.

"Thanks," Sally said. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me." He felt her fingers brush his shoulder, and he looked around at her.

"You're joking."

"No. That means we can have a comfortable silence, right? That's a good thing."

"Guess so." He tried it out, listening to the quiet between them, but mostly what he heard were his own thoughts. Was that what Buffy had meant, that she was comfortable with him, before everything went pear-shaped? No, that was another idea that was far too painful to contemplate, that he might have wasted another opportunity. "Sally?"

"Hmm?"

"Something you ought to know. About me, I mean."

"Let me guess," she said, a smile in her voice, "you can't see why anyone would own more than three pairs of shoes, have trouble expressing your emotions, and think about sex every twenty seconds."

"Well, two pairs and ten seconds, but, yeah."

"Spike, I already knew you were a man."

"Did you, now?" He stopped himself.

"Mm-hmm."

He looked over at her again, surprised by the open appreciation he heard in her voice. Sighing, he lifted himself back onto the tailgate, gripping the edges. "You definitely need to hear this, then."

"Shoot."

He looked into the darkness. "What we talked about before… You need to know why I earned my soul."

"To win the fair Miss Summers," she replied promptly.

"No, nothing that simple. Listen, Angel doesn't know this."

"I won't say anything to him," came her quick reassurance. It occurred to him that he didn't doubt her, but he let that revelation pass unexamined.

"Something happened between me and Buffy, something I've never told anyone. Dawn knows, because she still hates the sight of me, but I don't think Buffy told all her friends. So, I'd like you… just to listen.

"About a year before I got my soul back, Buffy died. She died because," he took a breath, "because I failed her. Had that chip back then, and we worked together. I was already in love with her, wanted her approval, wanted her to need me. We were up against a god at the time, a crazy, skanky god, but a god, nonetheless. Buffy took care of the god, leaving me to protect… the thing the god wanted, the key it needed to get back to its own world. I failed, though, and Buffy had to give her life to prevent the god's hell-world from taking over ours, to close the door that had opened.

"She trusted me, and I let her down, and it nearly drove me crazy. If I hadn't had Dawn to take care of that summer… Dagenham, me. I was the only one strong enough to protect her kid sis, so Buffy had to rely on me, before the end. Could still do that, after, still take care of Dawn.

"It was months later that Willow brought her back to life, blood magic, that. Red thought Buffy was in the god's world, in hell. But Buffy had done her tour of duty. She was in heaven," he said, his voice tightening, "and her friends pulled her out."

Sally made a small sound and covered his hand with hers where it still gripped the edge of the tailgate.

"Never easy, coming back from the grave – you know that. Was 'specially hard for her. For a long time, I was the only person she told where she'd been. And I loved it, being her confidante. But that's about all she ever shared with me. She felt she'd been kicked out of heaven, and living on earth again was like being in hell. She thought she must deserve punishment, somehow, since she hadn't been allowed to stay.

"Not that I had this all figured out at the time. I was just so happy to have her back, in any condition, so happy that I didn't have to be miserable anymore. 'Bout that same time, the chip in my head started malfunctioning. The first human I realized I could hurt was Buffy – she was just a bit different after being brought back, just different enough not to trigger the cattle prod in my skull.

"We'd shared a couple of kisses – I guess I was just another demon in what was a whole world of hell to her. When I could hit her, though, hurt her… it changed things, made her notice me. I could… be a tool for punishment. We started having, I don't know, an affair? It was all fine by me. Vampires and violence, yeah? And I loved her, had loved her for so long. But it was killing her on the inside, the way she was using me, hurting me, letting me… hurt her. She kept it a secret from everyone, still felt shame, at least. It wasn't always about the… danger that let her feel alive, but she would never let it be about love.

"So, she ended things. I was devastated, but not crazy with it, you know? She had been up front, broken it off with me square, left me with my dignity. She knew what that meant to me. Not like Dru, who slept around without even bothering to try to kill me – and me in a wheelchair."

Sally made a sound of distaste and ran her thumb across his. The mention of Drusilla and Darla would nearly always crack her Southern politeness and bring out a catty remark about the demons who had sired her friends. This time she didn't say anything, though, and Spike continued.

"Buffy hadn't told anyone. She might depend on me, might trust me to take care of the Nibblet, but she was ashamed for anyone to know she was sleeping with a soulless thing. There was another girl, another Scooby hanger-on, who had been dumped – left at the altar, literally. She and I… we drank too much one night and wound up having a table-ender. It was meaningless, made us feel even worse afterwards, you know what I mean."

Sally was staring at her feet. Spike let go of the tailgate and turned his hand, sliding his fingers between hers. He needed a connection with someone just now, and, by default, she was it. He could never tell this to Angel.

"No, I guess you don't. Take my word for it, then. Trouble is, all parties found out, and then I, in a fit of fuck-you, let slip about Buffy and me. It was a nasty, unpleasant business. Dawn came to my crypt, told me how bad I'd hurt her big sis. I was feeling low, anyway, and hearing that Buffy still cared enough to feel… anything….

"Dunno what I was thinking. Went to see her, meaning to apologize, tell her that I hadn't slept with Anya just to hurt her. I caught Buffy at a bad time. She was injured and… weak. Slayers heal quickly, like us, but she had just been in a fight, I reckon."

Spike's words slowed, and he shut his eyes. "Seeing her, with the thought in my head that she still cared… Didn't listen to her say 'no,' because she had said it in the past, trying to convince herself she didn't want me, and not meant it. She did this time, and I didn't… understand the difference." He gripped Sally's hand and enunciated his words carefully. "I tried to rape her."

After several long seconds, Sally reached over with her other hand and covered their entwined fingers. He closed his eyes even more tightly.

"So she trusted me, and I betrayed that. I loved her, I hurt her, she hurt me, I failed her, but I'd never betrayed her trust until that night. She managed to push me away, and… I got it, then. I left, confused, not knowing why I hadn't… finished, and not knowing how I couldn't have understood. I was a demon, and I knew I shouldn't be having those… emotions. Feelings. I remembered a legend that I'd heard, something I didn't believe, really, but I went halfway around the world to try to give Buffy what she deserved.

"Course, what I really wanted was something for me, for her to love me, for me to never have to see hurt and anger on her face again. I forgot that there were billions of people with souls that she didn't love. I went to the other side of the planet, went through the trials, got my soul, and finally understood.

"Went back to Sunnydale and was in bits for a while, quite mad. Wasn't just my soul weighing on me, but when my conscience met my crimes… that was a big part of it. I think I scared Buffy more after I had my soul than I ever had without one." His voice was scathing. "So you should know, Sally, what I'm capable of."

When she didn't reply, he tried to pull his hand away, but she held on as tightly to him as he had to her earlier. Sally cleared her throat. "What you were capable of as a demon, honey, was to feel such remorse," she had to clear her throat again, "that you changed. I never knew that was possible."

She did let go of his hand, and scooted closer to him, her arm going around his waist. He clenched his jaw, not wanting to be touched now, bitterly aware of the irony.

"What you were capable of then is not what you are capable of now."

"Most rapists have souls."

Sally sighed and took her arm away. Perversely, he wanted her embrace again. She slid off the tailgate, then turned and pulled him from his perch. She looked up at him in the gloom, still holding his hands, and took a breath to say something. Instead, she slid one arm around his waist and the other up to the base of his neck and held him.

It took a long time before he wrapped his arms around her, leaning on her and letting his head fall forward until he was curved around her smaller frame. His eyes were wet, but they were in darkness, and she had said she would not tell.

"Someday," she said in a quiet voice, "you can tell me the rest of the story, how you regained her trust and how she came to care about you again. She does, you know. She told me so." Sally gave him a fierce hug, and he knew it meant that she was about to disentangle herself. "You're a good man," she said firmly, lifting her head.

Someone else saying those words would have meant everything, once. "How can you know that?" he asked.

"How do you know I'm a good person?" she countered, sliding away from him and taking up his hands again. "Everyone knows their own sins; everyone has a conscience that loves to play with those memories and make you feel like scum. Because of me, five people are dead. No matter what I tell myself about Henry needing me, there's a part of me that knows – knows – I should have gone out into the sun before I killed even one person.

"Good people feel bad when they hurt other people, and they learn from that so they don't do bad things in the future. It's the people who don't care whether they've hurt someone that you have to watch out for." She shrugged. "You qualify as a good person in my book, for what it's worth."

"It's worth a lot."

She studied his downcast face. "I'm not scared to be here alone with you."

"That, um, that means a lot, too."

She wasn't sure she would have picked up on it in full light, where she might be watching his eyes or his mouth, but Sally could feel the way his hands lingered on hers as he let go, and she had a sudden insight. The only way he got to touch anyone was with violence or lust. She remembered an old article in a women's magazine about 'skin hunger,' a human's need to feel the closeness of another person. She thought of how long it had taken him to relax that night on the couch. And she thought just a little of how much she missed Henry.

"Spike?"

"Yeah?" He sounded tired.

She had no idea of what she could propose. She certainly couldn't just tell him he had a need she could meet, or that she wanted to hold him a little longer. "Um, come in the house with me? We can sit on the couch and watch a movie or something."

"Yeah, all right," he agreed, but she could hear puzzlement in his tone. He's trying to figure out my motives, she thought, so his next words caught her by surprise.

"When did Buffy talk to you about me?" he asked. She could feel the intensity of his eyes even before she looked up at him. He continued slowly, "You've barely met each other."

Sally willed herself not to look away from him, not to give anything away. She hadn't known, then. "The night we left Cleveland, Buffy and I went for walk together. I stuck my nose in where it wasn't wanted." She shrugged and turned away, heading outside, but he caught her arm.

"What did you talk about?"

She made a conscious decision and again covered his hand with hers. "Angel checked into our hotel looking lower than he did when I first met y'all in Los Angeles. Then you came in, honey, drunk as a skunk. It was pretty easy to figure out the common denominator. So, when we went to Mr. Giles' the next day, I asked her to take a walk with me." Sally turned a bit more toward him. "I liked Buffy when I met her, Spike. And I really liked my new friends, the only ones I've made in years. I saw three miserable people, and I told her what I thought."

"Which was?"

"That it would be better for one person to be miserable, and two to be happy." Spike abruptly let go of her arm. She made a defensive gesture. "Buffy told me it was none of my business, that I didn't understand, and I… have to agree with her."

"What else?"

She stood a little taller. "It was a talk between two women, Spike. There were more words said, but that's the upshot."

He was silent for a long time. "Did she…" His words died away as the sound of the gate opening carried into the barn. Angel had returned. Spike made an impatient noise.

"You coming in?" Sally asked, knowing the answer. Her voice was cool.

"No. Think I'll pass on the movie."

"All right."

He watched her walk away. She was protecting Buffy, because if he knew the Slayer, she had done more than tell Sally it was none of her business. He listened to Sally greet Angel, to the other man's laughing response. She was probably protecting herself, too. But he couldn't help but think that right after that conversation, Buffy had invited him to go upstairs with her. She had chosen him. He let his head fall back. For all the good it had done, she had chosen him.

Another opportunity lost.

⸹

Angel stuck his head past the kitchen door and craned his neck toward the motor pool, peering through the screens that enclosed the porch. After a good ten minutes of cranking – about which he made a note to tease Spike – the motorcycle engine had finally caught. The door to the building didn't open, though, so after a short wait, he turned back inside.

Sally was standing behind him. "He did it," she said, sounding impressed.

"Took him long enough," Angel replied, stepping past her and returning to the kitchen table, where a book and a cup awaited his return. "He dashed out there under a blanket three hours ago."

"That engine hasn't turned over since," Sally paused, looking up at the ceiling and trying to remember, "I don't know, the first Reagan administration? Getting it to run, that's like a minor miracle. He did a good job."

Angel grunted, not feeling generous enough to praise the other man. He looked up from his book at Sally, who was chuckling, his eyebrows raised. "What?"

"Honey, the way you two get along, you might as well be brothers."

"We're not." They had been family, though, and the impulse to take the younger vampire in an embrace was there as often as the urge to hurt him.

"Did you have any brothers, Angel?" Sally slid into the chair opposite him.

He lay the book facedown on the table, staring at the spine. "A sister."

"Just the one?" At his nod, she continued. "Me, too. Just a brother, I mean."

"Your brother died at Normandy, right?"

Sally nodded, turning her head toward the door as the sound of the motorcycle engine died. They faintly heard Spike say, "Yeah. Showed you who's…" before the motor blatted to life again.

"Uh-huh. He's buried over there. I don't know if Roger really wanted to march off to war. He didn't, not the way Henry did. I've still got the letters he wrote from the army. Funny, I was sure that Henry was going to die fighting the war, but I never even considered that Roger would."

"Was he older than you?"

"No, a year younger. There's nothing more miserable for a guy than having an older sister. I was always so bossy and mean to him, at least until I became a teenager."

"My sister Kathy was six years younger than me."

"Was she ever mean to you?"

"No. She was my little princess. She thought I could do no wrong. I thought pretty much the same," he added, wryly.

"Works better when there's more of an age difference, I think."

"She was such an adorable little thing, all dark hair and big eyes." Angel smiled in remembrance. "I would have made life miserable for Kathy's beaus if she'd lived to –" He stopped abruptly.

"She died young?" Sally asked sympathetically, stretching her arm across the table to lay a cool hand over his.

Angel swallowed, then met her eyes after a moment in lieu of a reply. Her eyes widened in comprehension. He started to pull his hand away, to leave the table, but she clasped her strong fingers over his.

"I'm sorry, Angel," she said, and left it at that.

He nodded, looking away, thinking of the wonder on his sister's innocent face as she invited an angel into the house. "Of the things I've done, things far more evil," he said thickly, "that's one that haunts me."

Sally stretched across the table to put her other hand on his cheek. "I'm proud to know you, Angel."

He gave a short, harsh laugh. "Why?"

"With the weight of all that, you still try to make a difference."

"I don't know if I do."

"Honey, you try."

He met her level gaze again. "You know," he said slowly, "I can't imagine you being mean to Roger."

She nodded and smiled a little, dropping her hand from his face. "Must be the age difference."

"Tires are shot," Spike said from the doorway.

Angel looked over at the blond man, who stood on the other side of the screen with the blanket clutched in his hands. He didn't remember hearing the engine shut off. Sally gave his fingers a last squeeze, then stood from the table.

"Dry rot?" she asked Spike, bustling over to hold the screen door for him. "I should have thought of that. We'll get a new set tomorrow… then you can start on the Ducati."

⸹

Spike knocked on the door. "Aren't you done?"

"I'm shaving," Angel replied carefully, working on his upper lip.

"Well, if that's all," Spike said. He came into the steamy bathroom as if Angel had issued an invitation and began running his own shower, testing the water with his arm to gauge the temperature. Then he turned to watch. "You should have asked me."

"Didn't think to. Did I get it all?" Angel asked, turning toward the other man.

Spike regarded him critically. "Give it here," he said, holding out his left hand for the razor. He maneuvered the blade around his grandsire's chin. There was nothing self-conscious in the act; this was something they had done for each other for years, both of them better at the masculine ritual than either of their ladies. "There you go; Bob's your uncle." He handed the razor back over.

Angel felt his smooth face. "Thanks." He put out his hand and cradled Spike's chin. "What about you?" Vampires didn't grow hair quickly, but it did grow, one of those odd quirks that remained after the change.

"Dunno." He shrugged, touching his chin. "Can probably go a while longer."

He considered the boy's sculpted face, testing the smoothness of the skin with his thumb. The blue eyes gazed at him patiently. Angel was suddenly very aware that Spike was shirtless, that he was wearing nothing more than a damp towel himself, low around his hips.

Sensing his change in mood, Spike twisted away. "Hands off, perv." He turned toward the shower, not bothered by what was a natural reaction between two of their kind. "Not quite that desperate."

"Apparently I am," Angel growled, angry with himself. He oriented himself toward the sink so he couldn't see the other man and began to rinse the razor. He remembered how he'd explained vampirism to the boy all those years ago: feeding, fighting, and fucking, the three f's. He gritted his teeth. It would be good to get away for a while.

⸹

"Drive carefully," Sally admonished. "It's Friday night; there'll be a lot of people out."

"I can do that," Angel agreed, looking up at her as she stood by the car window.

"You have the atlas and the directions?"

"Yeah."

"Do you think it's anything dangerous?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Rupert didn't say that it was something he wanted us to protect, just that it was something we would want to see. I doubt it's dangerous."

"Okay. Well, drive carefully, then."

"You said that."

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, I did. Sorry. Here, give us a hug, and I'll let you go." Sally leaned through the window and got her hug. She stepped back as Angel put the Mustang in gear and watched the taillights retreat down the driveway.

Frowning, she turned back to the house. She was restless. Part of her wished she could have gone with Angel, but she knew he needed time alone. Sally looked at the house, practically feeling the moodiness that was coming off Spike in waves. She had seen right away that Angel was the classic still-waters-run-deep type, but the bright sparkle of Spike's personality had treacherous rapids around every bend.

Sally rolled her eyes again at her simile. She needed to get out for a while, too, get away from the house. Hell with it, she thought, and marched back into the house. A few minutes later, she popped her head into the living room. The blond man sat on the couch, using the remote to change channels at roughly the rate of four per second.

"Hey. Want to come to town with me? I'm in the mood to go drinking."

He shrugged. "I'm not."

"See you, then."

He looked up in surprise, but she had already turned away, and he only got a glimpse of her. It was enough to make Spike vault over the couch. He caught up with her in the kitchen, grabbing her arm. He raked his eyes over her, from the white cowboy hat perched on her red hair to the fancy cowboy boots on her feet. "You're going alone?"

"Yes." The schoolmarm voice had returned.

He stared at the silver belt buckle at her waist. "What are you wearing?"

"Same thing I always do," she said, her tone still very patient. "Jeans, tank top… industrial strength bra." He could just see her eyes narrow beneath the brim of the hat with the last words.

He met her glare and raised an eyebrow. "That's bloody well not the same thing you always wear."

"Yes, it is. Technically, it's even more than usual. You should approve."

"Oh, I do." He held her arm away from her body and looked her up and down again. He moved further into her personal space and peered closely at her. "Is that… lip gloss?"

"Lipstick is hard with no reflection."

His eyebrows rose at her defensive tone. "I didn't know you owned makeup."

Sally snatched her arm away and turned to the door. "I'll be back before sunrise."

"You don't even have your purse."

"I've got everything I need right here," she said, patting the front pocket of her jeans without turning back. The screen door slammed behind her.

Spike growled at her retreating back, unable to disagree with that statement. Without that annoying flannel shirt… He stood indecisively for a moment under the kitchen lights, then strode toward his bedroom to get his boots. He caught up with her again as she finished opening the shed doors so she could drive the truck out.

"I thought you weren't in the mood."

"It's your mood I'm wondering about." She got into the truck without responding. Mumbling something filthy under his breath, Spike took the passenger seat. Sally was shuffling through a stack of CDs. "So, what is this mood, anyway?"

She met his eyes and held up the CD she'd chosen. Before the dome light dimmed, he saw what was printed on it: WHY THE HELL NOT? She slid the disc into the player, pulled the truck forward, and got out to close the garage doors. Spike took advantage of the time alone to do up his boots and run a hand across his still-damp hair. AC/DC was singing about "Dirty Deeds" before Sally was behind the wheel again.

"What brought this on?" he asked.

She looked down the driveway and past the reach of the headlights, always the careful driver. When they were at the end of the gravel drive, she asked, "Would you open the gate?" He did so, and waited so that he could close it behind them. After he was back in the passenger seat, she finally answered. "I don't know, Spike. I feel cooped up, I guess. I love you guys and all, but y'all are moody as hell. I just want to hear people laughing, music, maybe dance a few times. Uncomplicated things." Sally sighed and took off her hat, laying it in the seat between them. She looked either direction and pulled onto the road. Her hair, for a change, was not pulled into a ponytail, and she looked more generic to Spike, less like herself and more like other women.

"Do you… go out drinking often?"

She shot him a disbelieving look. "What do you think? A trip to the Wal-Mart Supercenter is usually enough for my society fix. Tonight, it's gonna take liquor and line-dancing with a bunch of good ole boys and girls. I want to feel… I don't know. Young. Have a couple of drinks, dance a little. I haven't been out on a Friday night for years and years. Don't you ever feel like just cuttin' loose?"

"Things get dangerous when I cut loose, Tolliver."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, don't you ever feel like connecting with other people?"

Like Angel? He bit down on his first, sarcastic response. Spike looked down and noticed that his hands were clenched into fists. He forced them to relax. This irrational possessiveness, rekindled when he saw her comforting Angel at the kitchen table, had to end. "So, where're you taking us?"

"A tonk out on Route Twenty-three," she said. "It's been there for years, just changes management every so often. Henry and I went there until the early eighties, when they did this really sad Gilley's thing with it."

"A honky-tonk?" He made a face. "With country music?"

"This is rural North Carolina, city boy. Work with what you got." After a moment, she added. "It won't be all overprocessed Nashville crap. There'll be Southern rock, too." The next song on the CD came up, the Ramones' "I Wanna Be Sedated."

"It won't be as good as what you've got here in the truck," he pointed out.

"I'm not taking you back to the house."

"I didn't ask!"

"Then stop complaining!"

After a tense silence that easily outlasted the length of a Ramones song, Sally took a deep breath. "How'd we get here, honey?" Her voice was weary. "Let's start over." She glanced at him. "Spike, would you like to get out of the house and join me for a few beers at one of North Carolina's finest drinking establishments?"

"Yes, Sally, I would love to join you for a night of revelry."

"Did you just break your jaw saying that?"

He clenched his teeth even tighter. "I thought you wanted to start over."

"You're the one with the bug up his butt."

He laughed; he couldn't help it. "That has to be the stupidest expression I've ever heard."

She grinned reluctantly. "Honey, you ain't been in the South nearly long enough to make up your mind about what's a stupid saying."

"There's worse?"

"Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit," she drawled. "How's that?"

"What does that even mean?"

"It means, huh, how 'bout that? I'm surprised."

"There's always the literal interpretation," he suggested. Why the hell not, indeed.

"Hotter than a goat's butt in a pepper patch," Sally said, after a moment of ignoring him. Jane's Addiction's "Been Caught Stealin'" kicked in.

"I'm noticing a certain preoccupation with butts."

"Let me think of a few more, and you'll really be ready for the drinkin' part of the evening."

⸹

Angel drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He was early, but he enjoyed driving the Mustang and felt it was unfair not to give the fine machine the speed it was made for. There were a few other cars parked in the stadium parking lot, but he hadn't seen anything move except a campus patrol car that prowled past. Sally had been right; there was no way you could miss the stadium. He glanced up at the huge shadow of it hulking over him. Football must be a big thing in Knoxville. An unbroken stream of cars was zooming past on the main drag, but none of them turned onto the roads that led to the stadium.

After another five minutes, he got out of the car and stretched his legs. Heat still radiated from the concrete from a long afternoon of baking under the summer sun. He watched a car slow and turn toward the stadium, its lights sweeping along the empty rows. Angel stood as conspicuously as possible, and the hatchback's driver spotted him and pulled into a space a few slots away from him. A young woman with short red hair got out of the car, which was packed with what looked like enough luggage for a trip around the world, and looked him over. She didn't come any closer or say anything, and Angel wondered if she expected him to give a password.

"How was Giles when you left?" he said, by way of establishing that he was one of the good guys.

Her face cleared. "So, you're Buffy's Angel."

He shook his head, bemused. "I'm Angel."

"I'm Vi. Cool car," she said, and reached back into her own for a manila envelope. "Here you go."

He took it, running a thumb over what felt like a thin sheaf of papers. "Thanks for bringing it."

She gave him an impish grin. "No problem. I was sorry to have missed your visit last month." She looked around. "Well, I want to get through Atlanta and into Florida before sunrise."

"You'd better be on your way, then," he agreed. "Nice to meet you, Vi."

"You, too. Say hi to Spike for me."

"Vi, wait. There's a police car turning this way. Do you mind stepping a little closer?" Angel asked. She did so hesitantly, and while she approached, he tossed the envelope through the open window of the Mustang. "Why don't you give me a goodbye hug, Vi?" Her eyes narrowed a bit. "I really don't want to talk to the nice police officers tonight," he explained.

"All right," she said, and there was a certain wary amusement in her voice that made him think of both Buffy and Faith. Maybe there was a special Slayer tone of voice to go along with the strength and agility. He pulled her close to him and lowered his head until he rested his forehead against hers. "This feels really strange," Vi admitted.

"I appreciate it, though," he said, listening to the patrol car slow. His eyes on the police vehicle, he nuzzled the side of her neck and felt her stiffen. "Sorry." He released her from his arms, but kept her hand in his. "Let me walk you to your car."

"They're moving away now," she said, relief in her voice.

"Thank you, again, Vi," he said, including opening the car door for her in his politeness.

She got in and looked up at him before closing the door. "You're quite welcome." He lifted his hand to wave goodbye, then went back to the Mustang. He clearly heard her mutter, "Maybe Buffy's not so crazy after all," before she started her engine.

Grinning, Angel started his own engine and followed Vi's hatchback out of the lot. He got caught by a traffic light that she'd already zipped through, so he picked up the envelope and glanced at the papers inside. He stared at them for a moment, dumbstruck, then laughed and threw the envelope into the back seat like the trash it was. Well, the trip wasn't a total waste. He'd met a pretty cool slayer, and he had gotten to drive a really great car. He was having more fun than his housemates, anyway.

⸹

"You're a good dancer," Sally said, sounding impressed as they left the dance floor and headed back to the bar.

"I'm not," he disagreed. "Once I saw the level of competition, though… These people are still doing the same basic steps I learned as a lad."

"Most of us around here have ancestors from your neck of the woods. Maybe it's genetic," Sally suggested. She bought this round of beers, as Spike had paid the cover charge. "You know what's really neat?" she asked, as they waited.

"What?"

"That we're the only two people here who can carry on a conversation," she said smugly. The noise level was ferocious, but no match for their hearing.

"Yeah, that is neat," he agreed. The bartender, a stout woman who looked to be fifty-going-on-twenty, thumped two mugs down on the counter in front of them. "You want to go to the billiards room, play a round?"

Sally shrugged. "Sure, if you don't mind my complete lack of ability."

"Really? Want to play for, say, ten dollars a ball?"

"You're not that cute, honey, and I'm not that dumb. If you win, I'll be the designated driver and give you a ride home."

They picked their way around the couples dancing on the small floor on their way to the pool tables. "Almost stopped dancing when disco got big," Spike said, eying the boot-scootin' with a jaundiced eye. "This sort of stuff I can do – though I can't think of why I'd want to – but I just couldn't do bleedin' disco." He shuddered. "Was in New York a lot in the seventies and early eighties. It would have put a bit of a cramp in my social life, not everyone in the clubs been high as the moon."

Sally gave him an odd look. "I saw "Taxi Driver" and decided then and there I never wanted to go to New York. Too scary. Plus Henry and I never scheduled runs up that way. Again, too scary."

He looked down at her for a second, confused, then his brow cleared. "Oh, right. Organized crime, mafia, whatnot. Well, it was the time and place to be a vampire. Something interesting was always afoot, fed well, and I never knew what kind of contact high I would have afterwards. Most nights, I wasn't even the strangest thing in the room. Listen," he said, touching her arm. The Rolling Stones' version of "Honky Tonk Women" was playing on the jukebox, and a smile took the corner of his mouth. "I'm sure Keith," he pronounced it soft, 'Keef,' "wouldn't remember me, but Mick might," he mused. "That's what New York was like for me in the seventies. Knew all the musicians in the city, seemed."

"You met Keith Richards and Mick Jagger?" she asked skeptically.

"Hung out with them. Mostly Mick, but I got Charlie Watts to laugh out loud once. We were all just blokes far from Queen and country, right?"

"Did they know you were…" she trailed off and flashed her teeth at him.

He shrugged. "Dunno. Maybe. There were vampires who were pretty open about it. Lot of humans like to be fed on; it's just another decadent way to get one's rocks off. Not for me – I liked the kill too much – but I honestly can't remember half of what I did there, who might have seen me."

"So you didn't dance, but you didn't mind because of all the juicy, stoned people?"

"Oh, I danced. CBGB was open, right?" He gave her a grin that had persuaded nuns to lose their knickers. Angel's idea, that. "Slam dancing. Now, that's a contact sport."

"I thought that was a grunge thing."

"No, pet. That's punk all the way." He lifted two cues from a rack on the wall. "I'm surprised you didn't know that, what with your taste in music." They headed toward an open table.

Sally shook her head. "It's the music, not the lifestyle. Every thirty years or so, I just get sick of whatever I've been listening to and want to hear something new. I'll live out a full and happy life, so to speak, if I never hear another Lennon Sisters or Conway Twitty tune again. Maybe in 2010 I'll get into classical, sophisticated stuff," she said, rolling her eyes at the thought. She grabbed the triangle and began to set up the table.

He leaned close to her, putting his mouth next to her ear. "If you do that, you won't get first crack at my balls."

Sally gave the triangle a final, brisk shake, the solids and stripes giving a single click. She turned, an eyebrow raised in warning, then grinned. "Your balls?" He remembered this tone of voice from the morning she'd asked him if he was a famous lover, but there was no Angel to amuse now. She closed the space between them and looked up until she could see past the brim of the hat, see his eyes. "If I don't get a shot, I guess you'll just have to play with them all by yourself."

He didn't hesitate. "Watch me play with them, Tolliver. I'm so talented with this stick," he murmured, leaving the cue where it was and swaying toward her so his hips rested against her belly for a brief second, "that you'll be on your knees in awe before me."

Watching her face over the next few seconds was an education. Her lips parted, and, even without using any of his demon-enhanced senses, he knew from her stunned expression that he had seduced her. Spike remembered forcefully why they had called a mutual halt to this kind of play. So obvious, suddenly, why she didn't touch him the way she casually hugged Angel. He watched her expression edge back to something more normal, her lips firm, and a dozen thoughts race past her eyes before she settled on one.

"I doubt it. I grew up in the Great Depression, and I'm used to poor boys."

This was such an odd statement that he had to ask. "What does that mean?"

She edged away from him, not answering until she was at the corner of the table. "Poor boys can't afford any other toys to play with, so they play with themselves. They always end up with big dicks." Sally lowered her head, but he saw a smile curve her cheek beneath her hat.

Surprised, he laughed, impressed at how she acknowledged their attraction, yet pulled them back from a border neither was comfortable crossing. He walked around the opposite side and carefully placed the cue ball. He leaned over the table, then sent Sally a deliberate look. "You grew up poor, Tolliver. What did you play with?" He dropped his eyes to her chest, giving her a wicked grin, and it was her turn to laugh. This banter might be risqué, but it wasn't dangerous anymore. Spike broke, dropping two solids. He nearly ran the table before Sally got a chance to take up her cue.

She didn't say anything about her turn with the balls, but gave him a shrewd look. "No wonder you wanted to play for money. I'll go ahead and concede: you can have a ride home." She scanned the table and chose the easiest shot, dropping the eleven ball in a corner pocket. Looking over the choices again, she pushed her hat back a bit and leaned far over the surface, bracing one hand on the table as she lined up.

"Hey!" Sally cried in protest. Someone grabbed her bottom hard, causing her to miss so badly that she scraped the nap of the felt. "You ruined my shot!" She whipped around, glaring, but was flummoxed to find that it wasn't Spike behind her.

"Sorry about that, little girl," a tall, burly man said in mock apology. "I could never resist a redhead with an ass like that." He touched the brim of his cowboy hat and grinned down at her. "And the front don't stop, either. Say, I've checked out the chassis, but what do you look like under the hood?" He reached for her hat, but jerked back as the end of a pool cue sliced through the air and came to a stop inches from his nose. The tip didn't waver.

"As I brought the lady," Spike drawled, "if anyone gets to grab her ass, it'll be me." He ignored Sally, who was now sparing a part of her glare for him, and met the other man's eyes.

The stranger looked delighted, and shifted his hat back on his head. "Well! You ain't from these parts, are you?" Spike brought the pool cue upright and let it slide along his palm until he was holding it normally. The local boy looked from his eyes to his hands, then whistled. "Look at that purty nail polish!"

Spike picked up his mug and walked carelessly past the other man, having to look up a few inches as he passed, an insolent grin on his face. He handed Sally his cue without comment, meeting her warning look squarely. He lifted his beer halfway to his lips.

"Y'all having a girls' night out? You gonna –"

Spike's eyes never left Sally's as his hand snaked out and slammed the man's head down onto the edge of the pool table, pinning him there. The blond vampire scoffed, his lip curling, then finished lifting his drink to his mouth and quaffed the whole thing. He thumped the mug down close by the human's nose, then shoved him away from the table. Spike turned his back on Sally, focusing on his challenger.

"Right." The other man had staggered away a couple of steps, rubbing his neck. "You've got my full attention now. Here I am, definitely not from around here, wearing paint on my nails." He waggled his fingers at the man and leaned his torso away, like a snake preparing to strike. Sally noticed that he had cut her out of their conflict completely. "What are you going to do about it?"

"You're dead, Dye-job," Local Boy snarled, coming at him with a roundhouse punch.

Spike took the time to scoff again and throw a can-you-believe-this-guy? look at Sally before he ducked the inefficient blow. He dodged a couple more slow punches, and finally started just slapping them away. "Come on! Hit me! Who's s'posed to be the nancy-boy here?" He knocked Local Boy's cowboy hat onto the floor.

Two men pushed their way through the crowd that had gathered to watch, and they grabbed Spike's arms, pinning him between them. "Now we're getting somewhere!" Spike smiled at Local Boy as he charged, now that it was safe. "And here I thought you didn't have friends."

The vampire took the blow across the face. It only made his grin widen. Spike swung one of the friends into the path of the next punch, then got the other one by the neck, holding the hunched-over man under his right arm as he lashed out with his left. "Oh, bloody hell!" he roared with frustration, as the free friend's eyes glazed over, knees buckling as he dropped to the floor. "You keep friends who can't fight any better than this?" At this point, a fourth man introduced himself to the fray by smashing a chair over Spike's head. It drove the vampire to his knees, which had the unintended effect of knocking out the man Spike had in a hold, as his head bounced against the floor.

Spike left him where he lay and rose in a fluid, graceful movement, shooting a grin at Sally. She shook her head. How could someone swagger as they got up off the floor? He looked at the two men who still stood, one in front of him and one behind, then laughed from the sheer joy of the fight.

"Hold 'im, Rich!" Local Boy said, sounding unnerved. Spike stood still while Rich rushed toward him, then shook his head and lifted a lazy-seeming backfist for the man to run into. Rich dropped like a stone, toppling bonelessly onto the legs of the other two men.

"All out of friends, are we?" Spike asked gently. He stepped close enough to Local Boy that he had to look up, but the other man didn't move, didn't hardly breathe. "Here's your lesson for the day: you can't always spot the Big Bad." He blew a kiss at Local Boy, knowing it would push all his buttons.

Incoherent with rage, the man made a snarling sound and lunged for Spike's neck with both hands. Spike let him grab on, then threw his forearm across the beefy arms, pushing them sharply downward and spinning him to the side. He brought his elbow back up, across Local Boy's jaw. The man collapsed on top of the neat little pile of his friends.

The watching crowd gave a smattering of applause for his performance, but they were interrupted by the woman who was tending bar. "Somebody's paying for that chair." She stood glowering at Spike with her arms folded.

"Of course, dear lady," he said politely. He grabbed Local Boy by a belt loop and lifted him from the heap to better reach his wallet. Pulling out a few bills, he pressed them into the bartender's fist, then tossed the wallet indifferently over his shoulder. Spike turned to Sally and held out his hand.

She looked at him for a long moment, then put down the two pool cues she was still holding. There was a gleam in her eye, but she took his arm. He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and led her out of the bar. When they got out to the parking lot, Spike let go of her and stretched his arms wide, as if embracing the night. "Now, that was more like it," he said.

"Showy," Sally said. She was attempting the schoolmarm, but there was too much amusement lurking in her voice to pull it off.

He grabbed her around the waist and spun her in a circle. "I barely touched them," he said, unconcerned, and pushed the brim of her hat toward her nose. Sally staggered a little when he let go. "Saved the world, and I still get into bar fights!" he crowed.

"I'm glad you got to blow off a little steam," Sally said, pulling the keys from her pocket, "but I could have handled it without attracting quite that much attention."

"You'd already attracted too much attention," he admonished. "'Sides, what would you do, ask him to please not do that?"

"No. He looked like a Cox, right?"

"Yeah, he was a wanker, all right," Spike agreed.

"He was from the Cox family," Sally tried again, stopping at the end of her truck and facing Spike. "I'm pretty sure I went to school with his grandmother. I would have said that I was going to tell his granny on him, the next time I was leading Bible study at the nursing home, that it'd just break her heart to hear how he was assaulting good Christian women."

"Good Christian women go to bars on Friday night?"

"Sometimes," Sally said defensively. Then she shrugged. "He would have slunk off with his tail between his legs hours before he figured that out."

"Ooh," Spike said, waggling his fingers in the air, "brutal."

Sally gave up and smiled at him. "I need to tether you like a balloon, honey, or you're going to float right off." She added with a grudging look of admiration, "That was really masterful, Spike. You could have crushed them like, no, not even walnuts. Peanuts. Styrofoam peanuts. It was a pleasure to watch you."

Arrested, he stared at her. "You're not mad that I didn't play nice with the other kiddies?"

She shrugged. "I hate to tell you this, but that's what we do for fun in the South on a Friday night. Must be the lack of opera houses. Face it, you're a good ole boy. Those guys were, too… just not as good."

"So," he said, moving close to her and jamming his hands into his back pockets. "You thought I was masterful?"

She turned away from him to hide another smile, opening the driver's side door. "You're way too much man for me." Sally tossed her hat onto the seat.

He was behind her suddenly, executing a move perfected by decades of practice, one hand on her cheek, the other flat against her torso, holding her in place. Instead of pushing her jaw away, exposing her neck, he lifted her chin and stared down at her. They were both facing into the truck's interior, the tall door hiding them from casual onlookers. "Try me on for size, pet," he suggested, and lowered his face to hers. He felt her go up on tiptoe, bringing her mouth to his, her eyes closed. His weren't, and he watched her.

Their kiss was better than it should have been, from starting at such an awkward angle. He sensed an unsettling amount of tenderness in it, as well as her need. Spike thought again of the theme of the evening: why the hell not? And Angel wasn't here for her to hug. He pressed his body closer to hers, pushing her against the truck frame, and let his hand drift down her neck and over the generous curve of one breast. Might as well have a memory of what she felt like. She'd pull them back from the edge again, if it seemed things were going too far.

Sally moaned against his mouth, and Spike froze, then lifted his head, eyebrows drawn together in disbelief. He looked down at her, seeing a look almost of pain on her face. Her eyes were still closed. Sure that he must have misunderstood, he slid his other hand down from where it rested against her belt buckle, pulling her body closer. Then he splayed his fingers across her breast once again, rubbing his palm against the hardness of her nipple through the matronly bra.

This time there was no mistaking it, and Spike realized they had already crossed a border. Female vampires were easy to please, but this… He felt her shudder and watched her clench her teeth, biting down on a second moan. Watching her come was almost too much for him. Spike lifted his hands from her body and placed them carefully on her shoulders. He felt the wide straps of her bra beneath his fingers, felt her tremble a tiny bit, like an aftershock.

Sally took a breath, then turned toward him. She looked up for a fleeting second, bit her lip, and smiled apologetically. Staring at his chest, she put her hands on his waist, then slid her fingers between them, touching the buckle of his belt. She was going to return the favor, he realized, and he grabbed her hands.

"No. I can wait for the real thing," he said. This, finally, caused him to close his eyes in consternation. He lifted her hands to his shoulders and let go. Because she slid them around his neck instead of pushing him away, he took what he had claimed from Local Boy and ran his hands down her back to fondle her bum. He had been celibate a long time, and this was heaven. She felt nothing like Dru, or Harmony, or… Spike nuzzled her temple, coaxing her into kissing him again. Then he pulled her hips against his, wanting her to have full knowledge of how arousing he found her sexual responsiveness. He moved against her slightly, experimentally.

Sally's head fell back, and he followed it, keeping his mouth on hers, anticipating her this time and pulling the sound of her pleasure into his body. She nipped at his lower lip, and then jerked away from him. Spike jumped, too. Someone had set off a car alarm nearby.

"We're in a bleeding car park," he growled, looking around, dazed.

Sally leaned against the seat for support, her eyes wide and stunned, looking at anything except him. She swallowed, giving her head a small shake. "Um, ready to go?" she asked.

"Yeah," he answered roughly. She turned and climbed into the truck, moving as if against a current in the air. Spike closed her door and took several deep breaths, waiting until the car alarm cut off before he walked around the truck and got in. He looked at Sally across the expanse of the bench seat, at her hat resting between them, the way her hands were clenched on the wheel. She started the truck and turned to look out the rear window before backing out. The routine task seemed to shake her out of her reverie, because her motions became more brisk.

She felt his eyes lingering on her, knew he was waiting for her to break the silence. "I'm sorry, Spike. I didn't mean for… I didn't know that would…" Sally drew in a deep breath and tried again. "It wasn't to put any pressure on you."

His brows drew together at that, but there was something else on his mind. "How long…?"

Her mouth curved as she continued to stare out at the road. "Since the kittens, when Jim brought us the kittens. You were so sweet, trying to get Angel to loosen up, growling at that little tabby. That's when I first thought," she stopped for a moment, then made herself say it, "when I knew that I wanted you… that way. That was… It scared me. I would never have done anything about it."

Spike's lips parted, and he didn't say anything for a moment. "No. I mean, how long has it been since you…?"

"Oh!" She gave a little laugh. "I don't know. Um… eight years?" She thought about it. "Over nine years. I didn't mark it on the calendar or anything. I didn't know. You always think there will be a next time, huh?"

He felt the muscles in his abdomen knot. Nine years. "Are you… is it always like that?" He was so attuned to her, he could feel her blush. God, it had been so long since he'd been with anyone, but nine years….

"What I told you that morning in the kitchen was true," she said simply. "But, no, honey, never like that. I may have a soft squeeze, but you've filed me down to a hair trigger."

Spike knew enough about guns to get the analogy. "Sally," he breathed, "you're killing me."

"Not likely." The corner of her mouth curved again.

"When we get home, love," he said, his voice full of dark promise as he carried on with the gun analogy, "we'll fire –"

"Nothing is going to happen when we get home," she interrupted, her voice no longer husky. "'Don't act on it,' remember? Nothing has changed, Spike."

"Nothing has… it bloody well has!"

"Not for me. I told you, I don't know how to… be casual about this."

"There won't be anything casual about it, I promise you." His voice changed, became more intimate. Sex, a central part of his existence since Dru sired him, was on the menu once again. "Haven't you ever wondered what it would be like with another vampire? We've got strength, none of the metabolic limitations–"

"I've thought about what it would be like with you, Spike."

"I love your honesty," he said, his voice dark as chocolate and twice as tempting. Not about being ahead of Angel, for once. Not at all.

Her movements suddenly angry, Sally pulled the truck onto the shoulder and turned off the engine. She leaned over the steering wheel for a moment, the muscles along her jaw flexing, then she turned to face him. "Don't. Spike, I can't." She looked down, not wanting to see how still his face had become.

"I'm pretty sure you would have in the bleeding parking lot, Sally. You were gagging for it." His tone was harsh as well.

Her eyes flashed dangerously. "Don't be so sure. There would have been something, but not that. Back there, that was just so… unexpected. Honey, you're just sex on a stick, and I…" She looked at the cab ceiling, searching for words, and her voice was weary when she continued. "I know this is probably just because we're both vampires. It's not sex to me, Spike, it's intimacy. I share my body, I share my life. The only time I've done this, we spent over sixty years together, continuously, exclusively, till death did us part. I can't ask that of you."

He leaned toward her. "I'm inches from heaven, Sally, and you're telling me I can't go in. How can you ask that of me?"

She recoiled, and he saw the hurt beneath the anger on her face. "That wasn't fair."

He sighed and let his head fall back. He'd known exactly what he was saying. "No. That was… certain parts of me talking. It's been a while." He grimaced; his soul had just sent him a shredding dose of guilt for that one.

It took a lot to break through her innate Southern politeness, but he had done it. "Even if I were a complete slut, Spike, I still wouldn't be dumb enough to sleep with a man in love with somebody else."

He roared in frustration. "Bloody women!" He forced his hands to unclench before he continued. "Yes, I will always love Buffy. There's a small, insane part of me that will always love Drusilla, if it comes to it. But they are in the past, Sally." Even he knew better than to mention that he had slept with other women since giving the Slayer his heart. "Don't use them as an excuse."

"Since when is Buffy in your past? I saw you in Cleveland, saw how you–"

"In Cleveland, Buffy and I…" He looked out the side window. "Women don't end up with men who – There isn't going to be a happily ever after with Buffy. We at least tried, and I can live with that."

Sally finally broke the silence. "I'm sorry."

He turned to glare at her, the genuine compassion in her voice infuriating him for some reason. "Thanks ever so."

"Oh, crud." Sally was looking in the rear view mirror. "Don't make any sudden moves," she warned.

"What?"

"You lived in Los Angeles," she said with asperity, "and you didn't learn to not make any motion the nice police officers might misunderstand?" He looked around and caught a brilliant spotlight in the face as the cop who had pulled in behind them shone it into the truck. He hadn't even noticed.

Sally waited until the policeman came to her window before she turned the key to roll it down. "Officer," she greeted him politely.

He pointed his flashlight at her chin. "You folks having car trouble?"

"No, sir, everything's fine. We were having… a conversation, and I thought it'd be better to pull over rather than try to drive at the same time."

The policeman aimed the flashlight at Spike, who gave him a very tight smile. "Y'all been drinking?"

"No, sir," Sally lied. Spike raised an eyebrow.

"License and registration, please."

Sally lifted her hips from the seat and wriggled her fingers into her jeans pocket. "Do you mind?" she asked Spike, giving a significant look at the glove compartment. She fished her driver's license from her front pocket and passed that through the window, then took the registration from Spike's hand and offered it, too. The officer took the paperwork back to his cruiser.

"You lied to the policeman," Spike said, his voice pitched for Sally's benefit only. "You're human, after all."

She gave him a mean look. "Exactly how much more complicated do you think I want this night to be?"

"I've never known you to lie, not since we all came clean about who and what we are."

"I don't lie to you."

He shook his head and gave a short laugh. "No, no, you don't." He glanced over at her, his eyes narrowing. "Although you don't tell me everything."

"What?"

He wanted to say that she hadn't told him she had a hair trigger, but since he couldn't say that, he brought up something else. "You didn't tell me everything you and Buffy talked about in Cleveland."

Sally twisted in the driver's seat to face him again, her mouth tight with anger. "Fine. You wanna know everything I told her, fine. I told her it would be better if she chose one of you, and I recommended Angel. There. The whole truth."

Spike looked out of the windshield into the darkness, his jaw set. Bloody Angel. Then he shot her a shrewd sidelong look. "She could have him, because it was me you wanted."

"No!" She closed her eyes for a moment, then met his gaze flatly. "I didn't talk to her out of selfishness, Spike. I'd known you for less than a week. I… It just hurt, watching you three. Angel talked to Buffy, he got sad and moody. You talked to Buffy, you got dog drunk to avoid the pain, you hurt so much." Sally dropped her eyes to his chest. "It doesn't matter, does it? Buffy was right about me being out of line."

"Oh, it mattered. She chose one of us, all right, pet. She chose me. Must have been right after your little talk." Sally looked up at him, and he could see her trying to make sense of the timeline of that night. This time, he looked away. "We gave it a go, but…" Spike's lips tightened for a moment. "Not going to happen. I never really let myself think..." He stopped, then looked back at her. He didn't want to think about that, about how his existence stretched out so empty before him. Anything to avoid that. "There was something else. I know you both, and there was something else said."

"Here's your license –" Sally whirled around to glare through the open window.

"Do you mind?" Spike growled in exasperation.

"… and your registration," the policeman continued, raising an eyebrow. Sally took them, along with a deep breath. The flashlight beam came back into the cab, resting on Spike. "You know," he said slowly, "I thought at first you two were parking."

Sally snorted. "I'm too old to go parking."

The officer, no older than twenty-five, gave the young-looking woman an amused once-over, but his smile faded as he focused on Spike again. "I'm not so sure, now." The blond man looked dangerous, coiled to strike. He brought the beam back to Sally's chin. "Miss, everyone on the force hates being sent out on a domestic violence call. You need me to, I'll nip this in the bud."

Before Spike could get his righteous indignation in gear, Sally turned on the policeman. "There won't be any calls, sir." Her words were polite, but Spike had never heard her sound so furious. She reached across the seat and found his hand. "This is my friend, and I'd trust him with my life. He's a gentleman." Sally squeezed his fingers. "We usually get on like a house on fire. It's just…" She let go of Spike's hand and pressed her palms to her temples for a second. "Some things have changed, things that might lead to a relationship that includes parking," Sally glanced over at Spike and leaned heavily on the next word, "someday." She shook her head. "Officer, I appreciate you stopping, but, honestly, we were just having a… discussion."

"Is that right, sir?" The flashlight focused on Spike again.

"Yeah, pretty much," he agreed, forcing a smile. "I'm learning that getting a good woman is… harder than I thought." He could lean on words, too.

This answer seemed to both satisfy and amuse the policeman. "All right. Well, why don't you save this discussion until after you drive your friend home? The shoulder is for breakdowns, not 'discussions.'"

"Yes," Sally agreed, glancing at the name on his shirt, "Officer Metcalf. Thanks for checking on us."

"Drive safely, ma'am," he said, and with another flick of the flashlight toward Spike, "sir."

Sally powered the window up. "Put your seatbelt on," she reminded him quietly. "I don't think he'll leave until we pull out."

Neither of them spoke. The patrol car followed them for several miles, then turned at an intersection. After another few miles, Sally broke the silence. "I need to stop for gas."

Spike left the truck and walked through the blinding fluorescent lights that lit the fueling islands into the convenient store. He came back outside with two bottles of water just as Sally went in to pay for the gas, so he waited for her by the driver's side door.

"Here," he said simply, handing her the water. "Thought you might be thirsty."

She took it. "Thanks. I am. That was very thoughtful."

He opened the door for her, and gave her a smile that was almost shy. It changed into his usual cheeky grin as Sally angled past him without turning her back. He resumed his seat and took a sip of his own water, trying to sort through what he wanted to say. Her defense of his character had both touched and frightened him. She'd called him a friend and a gentleman, not two words he usually heard, and he wasn't sure he could live up to them, soul or not. But, mostly, she had said that something had changed. He looked over at her as she drove them home.

"Sally," he began, but she cut him off.

"Honestly, Spike," she said, "I don't know what to tell you. Buffy isn't stupid; she thought that I might have an interest in you. The only other thing she said was that she'd kill me if I hurt either of you. Slayer's privilege."

"You've got a soul," he said in protest.

"Yeah, well, she's pretty protective of you guys."

Spike shook his head. "No, that wasn't what I wanted to… Look, you told me nothing had changed, then you told the cop that something had changed. Now, after long experience with women, I've come to accept that I'll never understand you lot. So, spell it out for me."

Sally's brows drew together. "I thought you were… engaged, emotionally. If you really aren't planning to be with her someday, if you both know that… It means you're free. It moves things from 'never' to 'maybe someday.'"

"'Maybe someday' should be tonight, for both our sakes." When she didn't answer, he shook his head. He wanted to lose himself in passion tonight, get away from the rest of his world for hours. His only other option was Angel, and he didn't ever want to go in that snakepit again. "I was with Drusilla for over a hundred years, Sally."

"When you were with her."

His jaw jutted out to a dangerous angle. "When she was with me, Sally. There's a difference."

"You deserved better than that," Sally said grumpily. She had developed a great dislike of Drusilla.

"You would be better than that."

"You're too clever by half."

"You said you'd trust me with your life."

"I care less about my life than I do about my heart." When he didn't reply to this, Sally continued. "Spike, I'm not trying to play hard to get or any other games. I didn't set out tonight intending that anything physical happen. Neither did you. We're not… ready for this." She sighed, then took a deep breath. "Henry may have had Alzheimer's, but I haven't even been a widow for half a year. You're not anywhere near over Buffy."

"Then we understand each other."

"All I see are roadblocks. It would change things between the three of us, make Angel uncomfortable, you know it would. We may both be vampires, but I've got the cave-vamp with the sleeping disorder. I'm a homebody; you're a free spirit. I lead a boring life; you're a champion, a hero."

"I'm a primate; you're a mollusk."

"What?"

"Didn't hear anything that sounded like an actual barrier. Thought I'd throw one in." He lay his head back and blew out most of his air through his nostrils. "We're vampires, Tolliver. This is what we do." Sally pulled into the driveway, and Spike wrenched open his door and got out to open the gate. Neither said anything else until Sally had pulled into the tobacco shed and turned off the engine.

"You're not going to talk your way into my pants, Spike." She said it with a sigh that sounded suspiciously like regret.

"Is that what you think this is about?"

"You weren't trying to court me until… what happened tonight."

"Nothing happened tonight," he grumbled. In a louder voice, he said, "Détente, before. Remember? Dunno if we can go back to that, not now." He closed his eyes and wrestled with his temper for a moment, then leaned toward her. "Okay. Tonight. You wouldn't know that you could do that, not for me. It means something, vampires or not." He picked up her hat and put it on her head, his touch gentle. His words, however, were defiant. "You take the best sports cars in the world, Sally – Porsches, Maseratis, Ferraris, if the driver at the wheel doesn't know what he's doing, you might as well be in a Yugo." He had an intensely vivid picture of Riley crammed into a tiny foreign import, hunched over the wheel, grinding gears as he clumsily clutched the gearstick.

He slid across the bench seat toward her, and even in the dim light, he could see her grow wary. She bloody well should be; he had once had a powerfully seductive guarantee whispered to him by someone wearing Buffy's body, so powerful that the memory could still take him halfway to hard. Before they left the truck, he was going to make sure she dreamed of him tonight and, quite possibly, for the rest of her life. Spike lifted her left hand from where it rested on the steering wheel and brought it to his lips.

"Let me take the driver's seat, Sally. I can – Bugger this." For Spike, words were a constant, so action meant more. He went to game face, turned her hand, and bit her wrist, puncturing the skin. He held his own wrist to her mouth, running on instinct. She only gazed at him, shocked, so he made an impatient noise and bit into it himself, then let his human features came back into dominance. "There. You know what vampire's blood is, love. You know how powerful it is when it's shared." He lifted her wrist to his lips again and drew her blood into his mouth. Spike's eyes widened as it hit his system; there was a narcotic property to her blood, a little different from the usual lust obtained that way. He smiled against her skin when he heard her gasp, knowing exactly where she was feeling it, then he held his bleeding arm out to her. He wanted another of his kind tonight, a cool body beneath his, powerful arms around him.

"Drink," he commanded. She took his forearm tentatively and touched her lips to the wound, staring at him with wide eyes. "Make me feel it," he sneered, challenging her, "like this." He drew more blood from her veins, taking her over the edge, taking himself to the brink.

She would never have done it if he hadn't been feeding from her, Spike knew. Her eyes tightly closed, she set her lips to his wrist. The suction of her mouth would leave a mark; he wished it wouldn't fade. He grew harder as she fed, laughing aloud with the sheer joy of feeling alive, then pulled her onto him with his free arm, falling back against the seat. He felt a little out of control and didn't mind at all. She sprawled across his body, her hat toppling to the floor of the cab. Sally abandoned his wrist and found his mouth, their blood mingling again. With both hands now free, Spike slid his hands across her bottom again, settling her astride him. "My shirt," he murmured against her mouth. "Rip it off. Feel my skin. See if it still bothers you."

Her face didn't change, but her eyes were dark and he could see the gleam of her human teeth. Obeying, she arched her body away from his and grasped the fabric of his t-shirt in both hands, tearing it and exposing his chest. The ripping sound was erotic, speaking to him of her strength and need and loss of control. Spike arched his own back when Sally's lips found his nipple in the darkness. He placed his hands on the wide strap of her bra and pulled. Her shirt separated first, then the hooks of her bra tore from the stitches that held them. The ruins fell from her shoulders and onto his bare chest. Sally made a sound of protest and swept them down her arms, all her thoughts focused on him, as he intended.

They had shared just enough blood for a weak mindlink. He gave her everything about what it could be like between their kind, his memories of what it felt like to move over Harmony, to be ridden by Dru, Darla's talented, professional mouth, even the feel of Angel's powerful body beneath his hands. It was brutal, effective. She ground against him, crying her pleasure aloud as he assaulted her senses through the link.

Spike chuckled and slid his hands down until he grasped the back of her thighs. He held her close to him as he flipped them over, taking the dominant position. His own eyes were half-closed as he bore down, pressing her into the seat. He lifted her arms above her head, holding them there. When was the last time he'd had control?

"Has it ever been like this? Like I showed you?" Spike looked down at her, seeing her red hair and flushed skin clearly, the darkness nothing to him. He could stop now, he found.

"No," she said, her voice ragged, no breath in reserve.

"In your dreams, when you imagined it was me?"

"No." She lifted her mouth to his.

Smiling, Spike nipped her bottom lip and let go of her hands. He shrugged out of the remnants of his shirt. Waiting for her to regain control, he watched her, a hint of amusement on his face. He knew he could make her plead with him, and there was at least some satisfaction in that.

"You think I'm a gentleman, Sally, so I've stopped. Say the word, and I'll give you more. Do you want me to go on?"

She stared up at him, unable to speak, and he could see how dark her eyes were. Spike hoped she could bring herself to say yes, but she'd be lying if she said no.

"Right, then," he said, sounding much more at ease than he felt, and took one of her hands and slid it into the sleeve of his shirt. He did the same with her other hand, and pulled it down to her shoulders and around her chest. Sally's eyes were closed again, her blunt teeth closed on her lower lip. Even his prosaic movements were too much for her sensitized body. Smiling grimly, he knotted the ends of the torn shirt between her breasts. Then he leaned close to her ear, letting her take his weight, and gave her his own erotic promise, his voice like the purr of a great cat. "Think of everything I didn't do, didn't touch, didn't taste. Next time, I get to take it out of park and into first gear, pet." Sally opened her eyes, focusing on him as he opened his thoughts to her again through their shared blood. She convulsed beneath him, and he coldly calculated the improved odds that she would come to his bed later tonight.

Sally slid her fingers around his wrist and brought it to her lips. She let go of his arm and placed her own wrist against his mouth, offering him more. Spike found he was breathing, almost shocked that she was going to go through with this now. He closed his eyes and reopened the wound, feeding on her heady blood, feeling a surge of lust as her teeth grazed him and blood passed from his body into her.

She slid her free hand along his ribs and between their bodies, and, with the long abstinence and the bloodlust on him, even through his jeans the pressure of her fingers was enough. He bit into her wrist, her flesh muffling his roar as he reached his peak. A second later, he realized that she had managed to even the playing field, and he slammed the bloodlink closed.

Bringing him had been enough for her, too, and his anger ebbed as he watched her struggle again for control. "All right, pet," he said in a low growl, "since you're curious, let me tell you a little about first gear. You'll notice," he moved his hips against her, smiling as a shudder wracked her body, "that I'm good to go. Being dead, I don't ejaculate. What you gave to me was very, very nice, but it doesn't make me a housecat for half an hour. I'm still a tomcat, and I've got way more than nine lives." A little anger did creep into his voice. "Open your eyes, Sally."

After a few seconds, she did. She didn't look dazed any longer.

"Want you to see me," he continued, "see that this is me. Won't be any different three days, three weeks, three months from now." He lifted himself away from her, then pulled her into a sitting position, fingers clamped on her shoulders. "Could be inside you right now, moving so slowly, Tolliver. The only reason I'm not is…you."

"You're in the driver's seat," Sally said in a husky tone that seemed to touch him physically in all the right places.

He knew that she meant it literally, too, as they had changed places. He nodded, satisfied with her acknowledgement. "You can be in the driver's seat sometimes, and I'll be your backseat driver." He grinned against her cheek.

She averted her face, but he'd already seen the anguish on it. "I don't love you."

It was like being drenched in cold water. Those words… Spike grew still, staring at her, their faces barely an inch apart.

"You're right," she said. "I didn't know… This isn't who I am. Whatever you want is yours, willingly, God help me, gratefully." She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to be calm. "Now, Spike, if it's what you want." Her voice broke on the last word. "But, please don't. I've never had… cheap, about lust." She put her forehead against his, then buried her face against his neck, clinging to him for comfort. "We deserve better. You deserve better."

Vampire or not, he barely heard her last words. His arms tightened around her automatically, and he stared over her head into the darkness, well and truly shaken. She had a valid reason, after all. Now, his body insisted, now is good, but he hardly noticed it, either. She was a vampire, was shaking with need and still refused to do anything that might hurt him. She was not one of his kind, had never lived as a demon, didn't understand what he wanted.

If things had progressed in the parking lot, while they were surprised by their passion, it might have been all right, might have just been sex. But if it was anything more than sex… he felt his stomach curl into knots. He couldn't do it.

He heard Sally take a breath, so he released her and broke the silence first. "I'm giving you your keys back," he said, realizing that he was the one pulling them back from the edge, "metaphorically. I didn't play fair. I just… wanted you to dream of me tonight, Sally."

"Who else would I dream of?"

He closed his eyes and turned his head away, as if the sound of her voice hurt him. "I didn't mean to… distress you."

"That's a new euphemism," she said wryly. She had apparently found the comfort she needed in his embrace. "Honey, it's okay. I got knocked down a peg or two," she admitted, lifting her shoulders. "If I fall to pieces when you touch me," she touched his face and met his eyes shyly, "I can live with that... or, at least, you can't kill me. Already dead." Her expression became serious as she studied him, and Spike had no idea what she might see in his eyes.

"I won't tempt you again." He couldn't read her expression either, until just before she spoke.

Her voice was small. "Not even a little?"

Spike laughed, going with her attempt to lighten the mood. It was easier. "Go. Get to the house, clean up, and put on more layers of clothes, pet." He shooed her away. Once she was gone, he walked down to the lake and skipped rocks across the surface for a long time, thinking of Anya, of Harmony, and of Drusilla's visit to Sunnydale.

His soul had never given him a moment's grief over Anya and barely a twinge about Harmony and Dru. Apparently, William was as much in favor of getting laid as his demon. What did it matter what he did with his body? His heart safely belonged to Buffy. He'd thought he would be Drusilla's forever, but the second lesson he learned as a vampire, after how to feed, was that he could feel pleasure with members of the family other than Dru. What did sex mean to him even now?

When he walked back to the farm, the dome light was on in the truck. Sally had cleaned the bloodstains from the upholstery. The cleaner and towels were on the hood, and he followed the strong scent that lingered on her hands to the north, until he spied her through the trees. She was sitting by Henry's grave, her head in her hands. He could smell the brine and copper of her tears. Spike had gone to Henry's grave once to read the headstone. Sally's name and a fake date of death were also engraved on it.

He went back to the house and showered, washing her scent from his body, the traces of blood from his healed wrist. Angel would be back soon, and he didn't want her to be embarrassed. When he finished dressing, he found Sally in the living room. Two mugs were on the coffee table, and he took that as an invitation to join her on the couch.

"It is just you, isn't it?" she asked simply, meeting his eyes. "I wouldn't feel this way with just any vampire?"

He shook his head, a slight frown on his brow, and told her what was almost certainly a lie to reassure her. "Just me, you said it yourself. Unless you're a hell of a lot quieter with Angel than you are with me." It seemed he was a better liar with a soul.

She gave him a quelling look, but her relief was easy to read. "Want to watch a movie with me?" she asked.

"Yeah, all right." The smile she gave him was so full of happiness that he was taken aback for a moment. He picked up his cup and gave her a quick, nervous grin in return.

⸹

"Wake up, sleepyheads." Angel shook Spike's shoulder roughly. "Looks like you two had an exciting evening." The blond man was sprawled in Sally's lap, and she was crunched against the corner of the couch, her mouth slightly open. She snapped awake immediately, a growing horror on her face. Sally made a squeaking sound that Angel would have found funny if not for her terrified expression and wriggled from beneath Spike's body, pushing him away. Giving Angel a stricken look, she fell on the floor and scooted toward the far wall.

"'M awake," Spike said groggily.

Sally went back to him on her knees, her hands running across his neck and chest, reassuring herself that he was okay. She gave Spike a fierce hug and dropped a kiss on his forehead, closing her eyes as if in prayer, then left him, putting distance between herself and the two men again.

"I must have just drifted off for a few minutes," she said, low and dark. In a tone of self-loathing that Angel had never heard from her before, she added, "I'm not fit to be around decent people."

"Good thing it's just me and Spike, then," he said. "Calm down, Sally." Concerned, he walked around the couch and helped her up. "You're shaking. Anything short of a pile of dust, you can't hurt either of us." He pulled her into a hug, then ran his hands up and down her arms. "Come on. Let's get you something warm to drink."

Still feeling wooly from sleep, almost hung over, Spike watched them leave and listened to Angel's voice as he continued to soothe her. He wandered into the kitchen in their wake, aware once again of how comfortable she was with the other man, understanding now why Angel was safe for her to touch. He still didn't like it.

"What time is it?" Sally asked. She was sitting at the table, and Angel was puttering around, taking charge.

"A little after three-thirty."

"Good. I couldn't have been asleep more than a few minutes. Did you just get back?"

"Yeah. Traffic was heavier than usual. Friday night, I guess. What did you guys do while I was gone?"

Sally looked up at Spike, who stood in the doorway. "We went out, actually. I took Spike to a local drinking establishment."

"A honky-tonk," he corrected, amazed at how normal they sounded.

"Spike got in a fight."

Angel turned to look at him, exasperated. "You've saved the world, and you still get into bar fights?"

"Yeah." He sounded inordinately pleased about it.

"Did you win?" Angel needled.

"Angel, he didn't start it. He was defending my honor."

Angel opened the microwave and brought the cup to Sally. "Sounds like a story."

She shook her head. "He didn't hurt them any more than they needed. It was kind of neat, actually – not for them, but I enjoyed watching." She took a sip, then raised her mug. "Thank you, honey."

"Them?"

"Guy who grabbed her bum had friends," Spike said, shrugging. "Who knew?"

Angel raised the jar, then his eyebrows, looking at Spike. The blond man nodded, so Angel filled two cups and put those in the oven to heat. "I'm gone for half the night, and there are hijinks and shenanigans. I'm not leaving you two alone again," he said with mock sternness. Sally gave the ghost of a smile, and Angel met Spike's eyes over her head, concerned anew. The other man looked uncomfortable and shrugged.

"Can't really blame the guy who grabbed you," Angel said, trying a different tack. At Sally's look of consternation, he grinned. "I've considered it myself a time or two." It earned him a small, grudging grin in return, and she rolled her eyes.

"So, Angel," Spike offered, moving into the kitchen and tilting a chair up onto one leg. He twirled it around and sat down, propping his arms on the back. For the good of his temper, it was time to change the topic. "What did Rupert send? Seven magic beans? Ruby slippers?"

Angel snorted. "He found the Shanshu prophecy, too."

"Oh," Spike said derisively. "At least you got to take the Mustang." But his ire faded. He knew now why the damned prophecy had meant so much to his grandsire.

Sally glanced between them, looking calmer. "Not worth the trip?"

Angel shook his head. He waited until he could bring the warm mugs to the table and slid one over to Spike. "It's a prophecy about a vampire with a soul, and it's not worth the paper Giles printed it off on."

She looked at both men again. "I might like to hear it," she said pointedly.

"The prophecy says that a vampire with a soul will endure a lot of trials and then… well, that's where it gets tricky. The language is long dead, the word 'shanshu' has a lot of meanings, like 'aloha,' or 'shalom' in Hebrew. The vampire may live, or die, or do both, with the inference that he becomes human."

"Or she? Is it a gender-specific prophecy?"

Angel frowned. "I don't know. The translations always say 'he.'"

Spike covered her hand briefly. "Don't get your hopes up, love. Angel and I both have some experience with prophesies, and they never work out in the most obvious interpretation."

Angel was more succinct. "It's bullshit." He took a cautious sip from his mug, then a longer pull when he found it cool enough. "I signed away any right to it, anyway."

Spike's head whipped around. "You did what?"

Angel shrugged. "Signed away any right to the prophecy." He took another sip, uncomfortable beneath Spike's scrutiny. "When I was trying to lull the Circle of the Black Thorn."

"Angel…" Spike's eyes were sharp. "As I recall, you were willing to –"

"I don't believe in it," Angel said with finality. "And, if it is true, it isn't about me." He dropped his eyes, staring at the tabletop.

"Well, it isn't me," Spike said firmly. "I fly well below the radar of any prophesying Powers-That-Be." He took an extravagant drink from his cup. "'Sides, I don't believe in it, either."

Sally shifted her gaze between them, then gave up on understanding the undercurrents in play. "So, y'all don't believe in prophesy."

"Not in many," Angel said, "and definitely not this one. We both made fools of ourselves over this one."

"I got to drive the cool car that time."

"There was one prophesy about the Slayer," Angel said, ignoring Spike, "and a very old vampire called the Master, my grandsire, as a matter of fact. The prophesy said that he would kill her and escape from the place he was imprisoned. As it turned out, he needed her blood to be strong enough to escape. So, if Buffy had never gone to where he was, neither thing could have happened. It wasn't a one-or-the-other, she lived or died, but a cause-and-effect prophecy. She had to die so he could escape. But that wasn't how it read."

"Buffy died… another time?" Sally asked.

Angel nodded. "He fed off her and left her to drown. Xander resuscitated her. So, technically, the prophecy came true, but the outcome was that Buffy lived, destroyed the Master, and went on from there."

"The lesson is, don't rely on prophesy. Well, unless you're a Slayer. You can rely on your own dreams." Spike looked into his cup.

Angel nodded in agreement. "Slayers have prophetic dreams, and at least in Buffy's case, they work pretty well as warnings."

"The dreams aren't worth the cost," Spike said, still looking down. "She'd cry in her sleep, horrible, heartrending sobs, and all I could do was hold her." The last nights before the final battle in Sunnydale had been brutal ones for his girl.

"And I shall flee this awkward silence," Sally said, forcing a smile but not looking at Spike, "for the much more pleasant company of my goats." She left the two men and went outside.

"Sorry, mate."

"It's all right. I'm glad she had someone to hold her."

Spike pushed against the back of the chair. "Something I've been meaning to tell you," he began, looking at his hands. "Buffy and me… there won't be a Buffy and me. We're never going to catch up to each other." He met Angel's eyes briefly. "I think we might manage to be friends. Maybe. Just don't want to have to dance around her name anymore. She's a part of both our lives, and I will always love her, but if it's all the same to you, I'd like to mention her without having to watch out for your feelings, you great poof."

There was no malice in his tone, and Angel studied him. "It's over?"

"It was over before I got my soul," Spike said, "at least the bits you never want to hear about." He stood up, taking his empty cup to the sink to rinse it.

"Before you got your soul?"

Spike didn't turn around. "She came back pretty messed up, mate. Don't blame her."

"I don't… I just didn't know, that's all." Angel looked down at the well-scrubbed surface of the table. "Thanks for telling me."

The blond man shrugged. "You mind if I take a spin in the Mustang?"

Angel nodded to the keys hanging on the peg. "It's Sally's car."

"Right. She lets me drive her car." Angel looked up at the corrosive tone in Spike's voice. "See you in a while, then." He left the other man to his thoughts.

⸹

Spike sat upright in bed, woken from a dreamless sleep by a sound of pain, a woman's scream. Snatching a sheet around his hips, he pelted to Sally's room.

He hit the light switch, bathing her in the harsh glow of the overhead bulbs. The first thing he saw was her red hair, then the red of blood on her chest. "What happened?" he asked, kneeling by the bed, pushing her hair away from a series of deep gashes between her shoulder and collarbone.

"Sally, are you all right?" Angel asked from the doorway. He'd taken an additional couple of seconds to pull on his pants.

"He bit me," she said tiredly.

Spike and Angel exchanged a wary glance. "It wasn't me!" they each protested.

"No," Sally said. "I bit myself. It happens every so often, when he gets frustrated or bored enough."

Spike pressed his sheet against the wound, staunching the sluggish flow of blood. "Angel, get the–"

"Got it," he said, the key in his hand. "Here. I'll get the gauze." He tossed the key to Spike.

"Just unlock me," Sally said. "I'll take care of it."

They ignored her. Spike loosed the manacles and picked her up to carry her into the bathroom. He settled her on the edge of the bathtub. Angel was waiting with tape and a roll of gauze.

"Really, guys, I can take care of this myself. When I dozed off on the couch, he must have sensed Spike close by and waited –"

"Be quiet," Angel ordered.

"Bad patient," Spike admonished.

She gave up and let them dress the wound. "Thank you both. Sorry to disturb your sleep," she said when they finished.

Angel put the tape back in the first aid kit. "Like you wouldn't have done the same for us."

"Only we would have been more polite about it," Spike added.

"Um, Spike," Angel said. "You're… the sheet."

"What? Oh. Right." He lifted the forgotten sheet from the floor and tucked it around his hips again. He caught Sally's eye, and she suppressed a grin. "Speaking of sheets, Peaches, why don't you change the ones on Sally's bed?"

"Sure. Just keep yours tucked." He put the kit away and left the bathroom.

"I'm sorry, Spike," Sally said. "I could have hurt you tonight."

"You didn't," he replied, shrugging.

"Well, I know you aren't fond of the Turok-Han."

He studied her face. "Was it the… different drink that stirred him up?"

She shrugged in turn, looking troubled. "I'm terribly disappointed," Sally said after a moment, sitting up straighter, her eyes flicking down to the sheet.

"Why?" he challenged her, more than a touch of arrogance in his tone. "I obviously grew up in dire poverty. Dickens based every serial on my poor family, the Cratchitt-Copperfield-Nickleby-Twists. Never had a single toy."

She grinned. "Well, it's just… I thought you were a natural blond."

He laughed at that. "Natural redheads are even rarer," he said, touching the waistband of her pajama bottoms and peering over his cheekbones.

"Back off," she said good-naturedly, swatting at his fingers.

"Leave the patient alone," Angel ordered as he came back into the bathroom. "She needs bed rest."

"Pity." Spike scooped her up once again.

Angel blocked his progress at the door. "You're going to lose that sheet again, so for everyone's sake..." He neatly plucked Sally from Spike's arms and carried her back to her room.

Sally, who by this point had given up and was staring fixedly into middle distance, waited until he put her on the mattress. "Thank you, honey. Now, if you don't mind, I want to get out of this shirt into a clean one, so…."

"No problem." Angel smiled and picked up a clean t-shirt he'd found in her bureau. "Here's one. I can wait." He crossed his arms and stood watching her innocently. His thoughts weren't innocent, but he kept them to himself. Three half-dressed vampires, the scent of blood, and too much bodily contact was guaranteed to lead to naughty ideas.

Sally took the shirt from him and passed him the key to her chains in return. "Out." When she heard both men's doors close, she changed and took the bloodied pajama top to the kitchen to treat the stain. The phone rang, and she jumped a little in surprise. She quickly rinsed her hands and trotted across the kitchen, but the answering machine picked up. It was Regina from HST Transport, and she listened to the dispatcher's offer, looking thoughtful. She went to the living room and logged into her email account. Sally scanned the information Regina had sent, and then made a face. The start date for the contract was tomorrow. Thirteen days, Knoxville to LA, then back by way of Houston. Maybe it wasn't a bad thing to have some distance between her and Spike. She knew what he would think, and maybe she would be running, but leaving seemed the wiser choice.

⸹

"So, you'll see me off in Knoxville and one of you can drive the Cadillac back home," Sally said, filling three mugs on the kitchen table at eleven that night. She had left her old-person car in storage in Knoxville when she'd gone to L.A. and had been in no hurry to retrieve it. "There's plenty of blood in the freezer. Is there anything either of you would like me to do while I'm in Los Angeles?"

Neither of her houseguests spoke immediately.

Angel shifted uncomfortably. "Sally, I don't know how to ask you this–"

She interrupted him, smiling. "Honey, I would have gone to see Charles without you asking. I'm going to take him a program I found from a 1982 North Carolina game. Michael Jordan's in it."

"No, it's not that." He frowned. "I know you have to work, and what I was going to ask is whether Spike and I can do more to contribute around here. Money, I mean."

She looked at him blankly, then glanced at Spike, who was watching her with raised eyebrows. "What? You mean rent or something?"

"Yeah," Angel agreed. "We really should have said something before."

Sally shook her head. "Aw, no, guys. You do enough around the farm. I mean, re-roofing the barn alone would be rent for three or four months, for what y'all get around here."

"Rooms, room service…" said Spike.

"Laundry, motor pool, discretion," Angel continued in a dry voice, "diplomatic services. You took us in at great danger to yourself, Sally. The least we can do is help out financially."

"Yeah, we figure your, uh, late husband's life insurance will only stretch so far," Spike agreed.

She looked between them somewhat incredulously. "You two," she said, reaching for their hands, "are just so sweet. But, you know, it isn't necessary."

"If I can keep you away from Los Angeles, I will," said Angel, squeezing her fingers. "I know we don't have any reason to believe Wolfram and Hart have connected us to you, but –"

"Honey, I don't take these jobs for the money," Sally interrupted. "I take them to stay involved in the world. It would be so easy to just live here on the farm and run a couple hundred head of Angus, feed off them and never see another living soul. I choose to work, to go out, keep meeting people." She pulled their hands closer to her. "That's how I got to know y'all."

"Still, we want to help out financially," Angel said in a determined tone.

She let go of their hands and looked from him to Spike, clearly surprised. Then she looked up at the light fixture for a moment. "Y'all know I drive for HST, right? What do you think that stands for?"

"Henry and Sally Tolliver," Spike guessed after a few seconds, his eyes narrowing.

"Of course," she agreed. "I thought you knew. I mean, we don't own it anymore; Henry sold it in the mid-eighties." Something seemed to occur to her, and she gave Angel a sharp look. "You thought Henry and I were just… truck drivers, huh? Angel, that's why you fussed at me over spending a bunch of money on fireworks."

"Nah," Spike said. "The old man's just cheap."

"Be nice," Sally said absently. She sucked her cheeks in for a second. "I'll admit, my parents thought I was making a mistake, like marrying a Tolliver was beneath a Collier." She rolled her eyes, and since Angel was watching her, both of them missed the shadow that crossed Spike's face at that turn of phrase. "Well, I know how to pick 'em. Henry got a degree in finance on the G.I. Bill and spent most of the fifties and sixties in the Research Triangle. He invested in computers and technology on the ground floor and… did really well. He was always worried about providing for me – I mean, it's a macho, sexist thing, but that's how marriage was back then – and feeling obligated to provide for someone who's… indefinite is quite a burden. Henry had done well enough to take early retirement, manage his portfolio full-time, and feel comfortable about my future by 1966. A mean little part of me kind of wished my parents had lived to see it.

"Anyway, Henry got bored with retirement and took up long-distance truck driving as a second career, so we could travel. He bought one rig for us, but it wasn't in his nature to miss an investment opportunity, and the company just grew like a weed. Knoxville was at the intersection of I-75 and I-40, a perfect place to locate a trucking company. In the eighties, when his arthritis got worse, he sold HST for probably three times what it was worth, based on location alone.

"I never have to balance my checkbook, and that means a lot to someone who grew up in the Great Depression." Her eyes met Spike's for a second. "If I don't touch the principal, I can 'live' very comfortably… indefinitely." She finished in a small voice. "I'm not just a poor old widow woman."

Spike looked nonplussed. "You're… you live in a farmhouse in rural North Carolina, the only thing I've ever seen you wear are tank tops, you got me to weld the radiator in a thirty-year-old tractor… This isn't making a whole lot of sense, Sally."

She shrugged. "Great Depression, remember? What I've got is good enough. I like living here; this is home. And I like tank tops. I hate shirts that are tight around the neck."

"Just how… comfortable are we talking?" Angel asked, haltingly. He was thinking of the fireworks, a shed with almost a dozen punching bags, the innumerable boxes from Amazon, her brand-new truck… He should have figured it out sooner, but he'd really just thought the money was from life insurance.

"Last time I violated one of the three rules of polite conversation, it didn't turn out so well," Sally said, giving Spike a soft look. "So, let's just say that y'all don't need to worry about helping out. I can afford to keep y'all around, long as you want to stay. Indefinitely, in fact."

"I don't understand," Angel said. "You took care of Henry here by yourself for years."

Sally's face grew very still. "Henry took care of me for years, saved my life in all the ways that count. I'm going to live forever; do you think I'd begrudge him such a short time after his lifetime of devotion?"

"I didn't mean that," Angel said. "What I meant to say is, I didn't know that you had any options. Taking care of someone with Alzheimer's isn't a walk in the park."

Tears stood in her eyes. "Having money doesn't mean there was ever an option."

"It does mean that you don't have to take this job," Angel pointed out, pouncing while she was vulnerable. He met her eyes, his eyebrows raised.

"I signed the contract and faxed it back," she replied, "so I have to go."

Angel's expression darkened. "It'll be the last contract, then. I don't want you in Los Angeles, not while–"

"Fortunately, you're not the boss of me," Sally interrupted in an overly calm voice.

"Try me." Angel glared at her a moment, then shook his head. "Sally, it's just too risky."

"And you're the one who decides who gets to take risks?"

"About this, I do," he growled. For a moment, Angel looked almost as dangerous as he was. Sally's implacable look didn't waver.

"Well, I for one am quite happy to be a kept man," Spike said, breaking their silence. "Some people in the Victorian era made an art of sponging off their well-to-do relations. I don't mind giving it a try." He stretched extravagantly.

Angel threw him a sharp look. "A kept man usually earns–"

"Let's stop right there," Sally said loudly.

"Why are you blushing?" Angel asked.

"Keeping two men?" she shot back. "That sort of makes me blush."

Angel grinned at her. "Two vampires. You'd be getting your money's worth."

Spike took a hasty swallow from his mug and changed the topic once again. "I only know one other wealthy vampire, and he's a complete ponce."

"Who?" Sally asked.

"The Count," Spike drawled in disdain. Angel scoffed in agreement.

"Count Dracula?" Sally asked in an arch tone. When they both stared at her stonily, her jaw dropped. "Not really?"

"Yeah, he's real," Angel confirmed.

"Eurotrash," Spike declared. "Uses his money to have special dirt in his sarcophagus, live in mansions, rot like that."

Sally wrinkled her nose. "Sounds high maintenance."

"Dru thought he was handsome," Angel said, giving Spike a significant look.

"Yeah, well, so did Buffy," Spike shot back.

"No." Angel sounded wounded.

"He fed off her."

"When did this happen?" Angel's lip curled in disgust.

"While she was dating that prat Riley," Spike said. "I guess she had to have a fix of vampire, no matter how pathetic."

"Riley," Angel said, as if that explained everything.

"I should know better than to ask," Sally said, sounding weary, "but who or what was Riley?"

"Buffy's college boyfriend," Spike said. "Human."

"Punched like a girl," Angel said. "Just a regular, little girl, I mean," he amended, shooting Sally an apologetic look, meaning it to be for more than just the remark.

"I never got a chance to thrash him," Spike said, real regret in his voice, "and I'm positive he's behind me gettin' fit up over some contraband demon eggs in Sunnydale. Unfortunately, him and his boys shoved the chip up my brain before I got to know and loathe him."

Sally was taken aback. "Buffy dated someone in the Initiative?"

"Well, don't blame her," Angel said. "He was her rebound boyfriend after I left for L.A."

"Stupid git thought condoms in colors really spiced up things in the bedroom," Spike scoffed. "I mean, colored johnnys? Come on! You gotta wonder which partner that's supposed to stimulate and which it's supposed to distract."

In the deafening silence that followed this statement, Angel blew out the breath he might have used to insult Riley further. Without looking at either of them, Sally mused. "No, speaking as a woman, color wouldn't do a thing for me."

"Yeah," Spike said, "Buffy said the–"

"Spike, honey," Sally interrupted, "you might want to change the topic."

"Oh," Spike said slowly, looking at Angel's pained expression. "Right. Sorry, mate. I was in Sunnydale for that whole sad thing; didn't mean to – You know what always pissed me off about Riley?" he asked. "That he wanted to be stronger than Buffy."

This did divert Angel. "He wanted to be stronger than the Slayer?"

"Yeah! It was a real challenge to his manliness," Spike mocked.

"Are the Slayers stronger than us?" Sally asked, also diverted.

"By design," Angel said, nodding.

Spike, however, was shaking his head. "Stronger than us, than run-of-the-mill vamps," he said slowly, "but maybe not stronger than Turok-Han." He looked over at Angel. "Remember at the clinic, when Sally tried to stake you? Not Buffy, but I think Sally could take any of the baby slayers."

"Not Faith," Angel disagreed.

"Oh, please," Spike scoffed. "I could take Faith, and so could you. You're speaking as her fairy godmother, not as an objective warrior." He flapped a hand dismissively.

"Faith's smart, resourceful," Angel protested. "I mean, she's not Buffy, but you couldn't take her."

"Yeah, I could," Spike stated flatly. "For that matter, I had Buffy down twice, my fangs right at her neck. 'Course, the last time I had about a year's worth of hate stored up. Thought I'd gotten rid of the chip, but I was just about to bite down and my head nearly came in two."

Angel grew still. "Really?"

Spike nodded. "Would have been three Slayers in a hundred years. Record would have stood for bloody ever."

Sally, who had been turning her head as if she was at a tennis match to follow the conversation, looked at Angel narrowly. "You're impressed by this?"

He shrugged defensively. "Professionally, yeah. I mean, Angelus was in it for sadistic pleasure. Spike… was just rowdy. He was in it for the fight. He's good."

"Thanks," Spike said. "I'm touched, mate, I really am."

"That doesn't mean I want to do your nails or anything."

Spike blew him a kiss, and Angel rolled his eyes. "See?" Spike said to Sally, sliding a hand across his abdomen. "Doesn't bother a man who's secure in his sexuality, not like that poof in the bar."

Sally shook her head. "I should pay you two, for sheer entertainment value."

⸹

Not long before sunrise, Spike found Sally on the front porch, looking at the slowly purpling eastern sky. He put his hands on her shoulders. "Coward," he said in a low voice.

The corner of her mouth curved. "I knew you would say that."

"Run, Sally, run."

"All right. I'm not denying any of it." She lifted a shoulder and pressed his hand against her cheek. "That was a nice diversion at the kitchen table, by the way. Thank you."

"Anytime. He can be just a bit highhanded." His hands left her shoulders and one slid into the back pocket of her jeans. "Here. That's for you."

She fished for the hard object he'd left in her pocket and finally turned around. "A cell phone?"

"I just went and got it." He pulled a matching phone from his own pocket. "These are special phones. They only call each other, and they do it every night at five a.m., when you're on some lonely stretch of highway with nothing better to do. And when that happens, you'll be compelled to tell me about yourself. I don't want any more surprises like at the kitchen table."

"Spike," she began, but he cut her off.

"No. You're a good listener, too easy to talk to. People forget that you aren't talking. Angel and I have taken you at face value, and we're old enough to know better." He looked up at the fading stars for a moment. "It's been nice being here, somewhere safe, somewhere I'm… welcome, even with Angel. I've told you things I've never told anyone else. Maybe I'd like to hear something from you."

"There's not much to tell."

"I've lived with you almost three months in this little farmhouse, and I just find out tonight you've got, I'm assuming, millions." He raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"It's not uncommon for people who start out poor to be embarrassed by having enough." She saw the look on his face. "More than enough," she amended. Then, staring at his boots, she mumbled, "Do you still like me, even if I've got money?"

"Do you mean, am I threatened by it? No. Vampires – regular, no-soul vampires, I mean – creep around in the dark places where people don't go. Find a lot of forgotten things hidden in forgotten places, but why should they care? It isn't blood, is it? Just a pile of cold metal. I turn treasure hunter, pet, I can afford to keep you."

"So, it doesn't matter to you? Not one way or another?"

"No. Bit of a strop that I didn't know earlier." He held up the phone. "Five o'clock, Eastern Daylight Savings Time. You talk, I listen. Give you a chance to talk your way into my pants."

"All right." She grinned, but it faded quickly. "I'll miss you, you know."

"You are running away," Spike said precisely. "You do not get to miss anyone."

⸹

Angel lifted his head from where he had been poring over a volume of Flaubert, trying to place the ringing. Not Sally's phone; she had already called for the night to let them know when to be in Knoxville tomorrow to pick her up. He quickly went down the hallway and found that one of the remaining cell phones bought that last day in Los Angeles was ringing. He recognized the first part of the number. Someone was calling from Italy.

"Yes."

"Angel?"

"Buffy?"

"Hi, Angel. I got the number from Giles. I hope this isn't a bad time?"

"No, never," he said, unable to keep a smile from his face. "This is an unexpected pleasure."

"I'm calling because I need to ask a favor."

"Anything."

"I'm flying into Charlotte in three days, and I wondered if you could come pick me up."

"Of course I can, but, Buffy, why Charlotte?"

"Because I want to see you guys, of course. I'm headed to Cleveland, eventually, but I thought… I hoped you wouldn't mind if I made North Carolina my first stop."

"I'm always glad to see you."

"Do you think Sally would mind if I stay there?"

"No. She loves company. She hasn't kicked us out yet, anyway. Let me get a pencil, then you can tell me your flight information." He went back to the kitchen and wrote it on a sheet torn from the pad for the grocery list. He hesitated as she read off the arrival time. "So you get in at four in the afternoon?"

"I know. I don't mind waiting until sunset. I'll bring a book or something."

"A book?"

"I read!" After a static-filled silence, she said, "Okay, maybe it'll be a magazine."

"Ah, Buffy, I do miss you."

"I miss you, too, Angel."

"Have a safe trip."

Angel turned off the phone, leaned against the counter, and stared at the flight information he had written without really seeing it. Buffy had said that she wanted to see them both, but he was positive that she had wanted him to come to the airport alone. It wasn't dreaming. He went over the conversation in his mind. She hadn't uttered Spike's name.

He sighed and stood up. Just because she hadn't mentioned the other man didn't mean he wasn't obliged to tell Spike that Buffy was coming for a visit. He knew that he would want a warning, if the situation were reversed. Angel listened to the silent house, then slid into his shoes. Spike had roared back onto the farmstead an hour ago and was probably still tinkering with the Ducati. They hadn't actively avoided each other since their hostess left, but they hadn't sought each other's company, either. He left the house, looking up at the sky out of habit. It was after five, and the eastern horizon was beginning to lighten.

The blond man wasn't in the motor pool, so Angel tilted his head, listening to the still night and absently patting either Kili or Fili, who had sauntered over to get its hard little head rubbed. He heard bullfrogs and tree frogs, crickets, a bird that sounded too doleful to be the early bird, and then the murmur of Spike's voice from the tobacco shed. Curious, Angel slid downwind and approached from the far side of the building in silence. Although the open sides of the shed had been covered with rough planking, the walls had enough chinks that he was able to see Spike sitting in the bed of the truck, his face illuminated by the blue glow of a cell phone. He was ashamed of his immediate thought, that the other man was betraying him, but it didn't keep him from listening intently. Very faint and tinny, he could hear a woman's voice.

"… like Laura Petrie, you know, from the old Dick Van Dyke Show. Even without a mirror, I could pull that look off, a headband and little Capri pants. So there we were, throwing cocktail parties from every basement apartment in the Raleigh-Durham area, Henry strutting around like a rooster with his very young wife." As soon as she said the word 'Henry,' Angel placed Sally's voice.

"Cocktail parties with banker types. Sounds as scintillating in the 1960s as it was in the 1870s." Spike's voice was low and amused.

"Well, you asked."

"I did." Spike turned his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. "So, celebrity most likely to be a vampire. Who do you think?"

"Nicole Kidman," Sally replied promptly.

"She is pale and scary," Spike agreed.

"Who do you think?"

"Could go for the obvious and say Dick Clark, but I'm going to say Walter Cronkite."

"No way! I love Uncle Walter," Sally protested.

"Bloke's been retired for decades…."

Spike's voice faded as Angel retraced his steps and went back to the house, a bemused expression on his face. Why was Spike talking to Sally on the sly? He could only think of one explanation, and Angel grinned in the darkness.

⸹

"What did you need, Angel?" Spike asked a few minutes later, coming to the door of the living room.

"You heard me?" He twisted around, surprised.

"Smelled you," Spike said. He waved his hand around his head. "Hair gel."

"Oh." Angel frowned and put his book down on the coffee table. "So," he began, getting comfortable on the couch, "you were talking to Sally. Alone. In private. All cozy in the dark, except for the vast distances of highway."

Spike sucked in his cheeks for a second, giving a little nod of his head. "Just doing my duty as a soldier in the Angel army," he said, moving to the chair in front of the computer. He slumped into it. "Checking out the Mata Hari types."

"Thought you said she was 'good.'" Angel struggled against a smile. "Or is that what you're hoping to find out?"

Spike acknowledged this, too, with a patient look. "Yeah, well, I don't want any more million-dollar surprises. Pissed me off."

"So you've been talking to her every night since she's been away?"

"Most nights, yeah."

"What did you find out?"

He shrugged. "She's a good person, was a good wife to old Henry. Her vampire got loose four times, twice in the first month after she was sired, and she sired five vampires in three of those nights. Wanted kids, but not that kind. She figured as she was immortal, she had time to improve herself, so she tried to learn to play the piano, hated it; taught herself to tat lace – who does that nowadays? Lot of anecdotes about Henry. They had a good marriage. Don't see that much anymore."

"The Burkles do."

"Fred's parents?"

"Yeah." The fondness in Angel's voice was tempered by sorrow.

"Still miss – never mind." He let his head drop over the back of the chair so that he was looking at the ceiling. "The deal was, she talks, I listen."

"Good strategy, Spike. I know the less I hear you talk, the happier I am. How'd that work out?"

He lifted his head, once again refusing the bait, and met Angel's look with a small smile. "Bit better than you might think. She's not there with those sympathetic hugs or the little touch on your shoulder, you don't blather on quite so much."

"Ah, yes, those little touches," Angel said, not bothering to hide his grin. "Good luck with it, Spike." He picked up the volume of Flaubert again. "She turned me down flat."

It took a moment to sink in, then the chair stopped in mid-swivel. "You made a move? When?"

"Weeks ago," Angel said matter-of-factly, tilting the book so it covered most of his face. "One hug too many out beneath the stars… Sometimes a man just has to seize the… moment."

Spike's eyes narrowed. "Turned you down flat, did she?"

Angel shot him a look over the top of the book. "Didn't even get a kiss. At least I tried." He shrugged. "Don't get your hopes up, Spike, my boy. Long distance relationships never work. At least I was in the same area code with her." His smile hidden by the book, he added, "Anyway, being from Galway, I know redheads. They're temperamental. Don't want to upset them, and, frankly, you don't make people… calm. Might be too much for an Englishman like you. Harmony, now…."

"Dunno about redheads bein' too much. I got on with Willow pretty well." Spike's voice still didn't give anything away. "Like you said, though, a bloke's gotta try. Don't hardly know how go about it, though, if for once we're not competing for the same bird." He sat up straighter and changed the subject. "Anyway, what did you want?"

"Oh." He tucked a long finger between the pages as a bookmark and sat up. "Sorry. I was having so much fun I nearly forgot. Buffy's coming for a visit."

As smooth as he had managed to be while Angel needled him about Sally, Spike couldn't keep the edge out of his voice at this news. "Buffy? When?"

"She's flying in from Italy this week, to the airport in Charlotte."

"Char– Here?" Spike's eyes narrowed again. "She's checking up on us." He pointed a finger at Angel. "As I recall, you're supposed to be watching out for me."

"Likewise," Angel said. "So, you want me to go easy on you?"

Spike scoffed. "I'll always take your best shot, Angel. It's usually amusing, in a pathetic kind of way."

"She won't be staying long. She's going on to Cleveland."

"Anything going on?"

"She didn't say."

Spike nodded. "Well, I'm sure we'll all enjoy her visit." His tone was wry rather than bitter.

Angel gave him a sharp look. "Are you growing up, Spike?"

"Never happen, mate," Spike drawled. "Least, not till I'm a pathetic, doddering vampire of two-hundred-and-fifty." He stood from the chair. "I'll leave you to your book, old man."

Angel flipped him off, and Spike flashed him the v's in return as he left the living room. Angel waited until he heard footsteps down the hall and the bedroom door close before he smiled. He stretched out again and opened his book, satisfied and relieved. If Spike had really given up on Buffy, that made things so much easier.

An hour later, Spike came back into the living room, freshly showered and taking advantage of the current lack of feminine sensibilities by wearing nothing but jeans. "Shove over," he told Angel, pushing his legs off the end of the couch and slouching down into the cushions. He grabbed the remote and began checking through the sports channels for football. Angel put his feet back up, into Spike's lap, getting an icy blue glare for his trouble, but the boy left them there. Sunrise came, brightening the room around the edges of the blinds, and he dozed off.

Angel didn't wake up until almost seven that night, feeling like it was the first real rest he'd had in a century. Then he realized why: Spike was asleep, his head on his grandsire's hip, one pale arm curving around his waist. Angel closed his eyes; the boy always looked so vulnerable in sleep. He had sketched Will like this, unguarded in the family bed. Reaching out carefully, not wanting him to awaken, he touched the line of the sculpted cheek. His family, his beautiful child.

Yesterday, he couldn't have done this. Yesterday, Spike was his rival. Now, though… After he saw them together, when he'd had a chance to see if it was really over between Buffy and Spike, if that went okay… Maybe they could be family again.

⸹

Sally was already waiting at the HST gates in Knoxville when they arrived the next night, a big grin on her face. She opened the truck's passenger door and embraced Spike, then crawled across him to hug Angel, causing the blond man to make a quick, evasive maneuver to avoid her knees.

"Careful, pet," he warned. An equally pained expression crossed his face for different reasons as she wiggled across his lap and back out of the truck to get her bag and the ubiquitous cot.

Angel found that he couldn't keep a grin off his own face, not just because of Spike's discomfort. It had been a while since anyone had been so glad to see him. Sally had stowed her gear and moved more carefully past the blond man to claim the middle seat before he managed to get an appropriately brooding set to his mouth. "How was the trip?" he asked.

"Fine, but it's good to be back." Still smiling, she leaned against his shoulder for a second. She turned to Spike and put an arm across the back of the seat, giving him another quick hug. "I'm starved; I haven't eaten anything solid for days. Y'all ever had Krispy Kreme? I've been dreaming of a chocolate-covered, custard-filled doughnut for a week. There's a franchise not far from here. They've got powdered doughnuts, too. I've never met a man that didn't like powered doughnuts. Although y'all might not want those, with the Man in Black thing. Krispy Kreme has a lot of different kinds, though. Angel, if you remember how to get to the interstate from here, I'll tell you the exit."

Her bubbly happiness was infectious, and Angel gave up and smiled down at her. "I remember."

She turned to Spike again and kissed his cheek. "It is so good to see y'all. I did miss you."

Spike looked down at her. "It's good to see you, too," he said formally. Sally's gaze skittered away, and she turned back to Angel. Spike raised an eyebrow.

"So, been driving the Mustang?"

"Yeah. I washed it the day before yesterday." Angel slowed for a red light.

"Did you give it a full body shampoo?" Spike asked, his voice innocent.

Sally giggled, then caught Angel's narrow look. "Y'all be nice," she scolded, as if she hadn't laughed. "Well, I ended up bringing a load of dishwasher parts up from Houston in an older rig," she said. "It didn't have a CD player, so I've heard way too much country music over the past few days." She reached for the radio buttons.

"Uh-uh-uh," Angel warned. "I'm the driver; I pick the music." A pained look crossed Sally's face, and her hand fell away from the panel.

"Besides," Spike said, "we'd much rather hear you prattle on than listen to anything we can get on the radio."

"Okay! So! What have y'all been doing?" Sally addressed this question to Angel, her head turned resolutely away from the man on her right. Spike shook his head in amusement.

Angel took pity on her. "How was Gunn?"

⸹

By the time they got back home, Spike was staring fixedly ahead, Sally was absently humming along to a Melissa Manchester tune playing on an easy listening station, and Angel's jaws hurt from grinning so much. Sally was, as she would say, as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. She had been calm enough to at least meet Spike's eyes until Angel had asked if he could borrow the truck to go to Charlotte. When she found out that he meant to leave the next afternoon and be gone for at least one night, she had looked at the blond man one last time and flushed a bright red. Sally had alternated between tense silence and babble since then.

"Well!" Angel said, stretching as he stepped out of the truck. There was a gleam in his eye. "Look at the time. Almost five." He hoisted the cot and Sally's bag from the bed of the truck and started out of the shed, heading toward the house. "I'll leave you two alone for your usual dead-of-night heart-to-heart." He caught Sally's beseeching look and one from Spike that promised retribution and ignored both. Anything he could do to encourage this, he would do, mostly for selfish reasons.

They stood in silence as the truck lights dimmed. The sound of the screen door slamming shut echoed across the yard before Sally lifted her gaze from her shoes.

"Alone at last," Spike said.

"Um," Sally said, barely a squeak.

He moved a step toward her. "Why so nervous, love?"

"Probably because Angel left us alone," she said, sounding peeved.

"Being alone with me makes you nervous now?" He slid a bit closer, predatory and amused.

"You know it does. I've been acting like a teenaged virgin on her first date. Oh, stop smiling." By now she was smiling herself.

"You let me welcome you home, I promise to stop smiling. I've endured hours of cheesy listening radio for this."

"One kiss."

"More than enough."

She blushed again. "I swear, Spike, you make me remember how to breathe." He chuckled and closed the last bit of distance between them.

⸹

Ten minutes later, Angel stepped onto the screened-in porch. He padded to the right side of the room, skirting a wicker table, and looked down at Spike and Sally through the screen. "What on earth are you two doing?"

"Er, what does it look like we're doing?" Spike asked. "We're getting this tarp up on the roof."

"If you want to leave tomorrow afternoon," Sally said, "I thought maybe we could bring the truck close to the door and use the tarp as a makeshift carport." She got a toehold on the edge of the railing and shimmied up to the roof. "Hand it up."

"That's very thoughtful," Angel said. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." Sally's reply floated down to him.

Spike stepped onto the small overhang of the porch floor, then lifted the tarpaulin above his head. Angel looked at him through the mesh. He whistled, making the sound fade like a bomb falling through the air. "Ka-pow," Angel said softly, shaking his head in mock sympathy.

"Got it," Sally said.

Spike let go of the tarp and met Angel's laughing eyes. He started to say something, then shrugged and hoisted himself to the roof. Angel smirked in the darkness, then went in to get his shoes. He should help; making a carport would be good use of the darkness.

On the roof, Spike gave Sally a perfunctory smile. While pleasant enough, there had been no passion in their embrace this time. He was afraid that he knew the reason why.

In less than half an hour, one side of the tarp was attached to the roof and the other side to the arched rib of a greenhouse frame. Angel volunteered to drive the truck beneath the shelter. In the tobacco shed, he paused a moment, then went to a corner, where several bundles of tobacco stakes were gathering dust. He pulled one out, looking at the length. The slender wooden pole was sharp on both ends and could be shoved through the stalks of several tobacco plants. The pole would be laid across the rafters of the shed, with the tobacco hanging down in the sheltered air to cure. It was about as long as a yardstick, but much sturdier. It would do. If he wasn't mistaken, it was the same thing that had worked for Sally for over half a century.

He snapped it in half and put both pieces beneath the driver's seat of the truck. Angel started the engine and drove in a wide circle to where Spike and Sally were waiting for him by the makeshift garage. He had been vague about Buffy's time of arrival, saying that he wanted to check out the airport before she came, maybe split the return trip into two days. If he were back in three nights, his friends wouldn't worry.

⸹

At one in the afternoon, Angel shook Sally's shoulder. He'd promised to wake her before he left. He didn't like goodbyes, but, as he was taking her truck, he felt obligated. She rolled over, her own features in place, and looked up at him. "Ready to leave?" she asked, propping up on one elbow.

"Ready," he replied, unlocking the manacles. She followed him out to the porch, yawning. The truck was already idling.

"You are ready. Did you get the cooler out of the fridge?" At his nod, she raised an eyebrow. "Nervous?"

"You should know about nervous," he said mildly.

Sally nodded ruefully. "It's just as well. Being alone here with him will force me to get over it." She stifled a yawn and gave Angel a hug. "Be careful, okay, honey? I know you and Buffy can whup whole armies, but watch out for idiot drivers."

He dropped a kiss on her head, hugging her in return. "Yes, ma'am." Angel held her at arm's length. "I'll see you in two days, three at the most."

She nodded. "I'll miss you."

"Thanks," Angel said. "I, uh…" His voice trailed away, then he met her eyes. "I'm glad you're my friend, Sally."

"I'd rather not be your friend." There was a soft look on her face. "I'd rather be family."

He looked down, scuffing his foot on the floor, and blinked a couple of times. Family. Maybe Buffy, and maybe Spike and Sally, a family. If he couldn't have Connor, it wouldn't be so bad to try to have something, would it? Because, without Connor, he'd never be truly happy.

"I like that." He cleared his throat. "I just wanted to say that I'm going to take your advice. I think I'll see if I can give Buffy... something, anyway."

Sally stared at him for a second, then a warm smile spread across her face. She pulled him close for a second hug. "Good for you," she told him. "You won't regret it; I know you won't."

Angel smiled down at her. "We'll see."

She lightly punched his bicep. "Well, get going! What are you waiting for?"

He laughed and turned to go, lifting a hand in farewell. Sally watched him drive away, the smile still on her face. Happy, but not too happy. If anyone could walk that line, it would be Angel.

⸹

Next Chapter: Giles calls everyone to Cleveland because of a prophesied series of battles.